

(Hass ' > Z c f 
Book 

fojmigM'N 0 - 


COEmiGHT DEPOSED 


♦ 






BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


Historic Boys.- — Comprising : Marcus of Rome, 
The Boy Magistrate ; Brian of Munster, The Boy Chief- 
tain ; Olaf of Norway, The Boy Viking ; William of 
Normandy, The Boy Knight; Baldwin of Jerusalem, 
The Boy Crusader ; Frederick of Hohenstaufen, The 
Boy Emperor ; Harry of Monmouth, The Boy General ; 
Giovanni of Florence, The Boy Cardinal ; Ixtlil of 
Tezcuco, The Boy Cacique ; Louis of Bourbon, The 
Boy King ; Charles of Sweden, The Boy Conqueror ; 
Van Rensselaer of Rensselaer, The Boy Patroon. 
By E. S. Brooks. Octavo, illustrated . $2 oo 

“ The character of the work is wholly praiseworthy. It is enter- 
taining, nay more ; it is fascinating in its brilliant style, and im- 
pressive in the vivid realism surrounding the different persons 
who are written about .” — Boston Post. 




G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York and London 




















« 


V 












/ 








Frontispiece 


(See page 220.) 







CHIVALRIC DAYS 


AND THE BOYS AND GIRLS WHO HELPED TO 
MAKE THEM 


KY 





ROOKS 

i\ 

AUTHOR OF “ HISTORIC BOYS ” 


ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK & LONDON 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
®be Jtnicktrbwhcr ^Ircss 
1886 




COPYRIGHT BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
1S86 



Press of 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York 



PREFACE. 


All days may be chivalric, however barren they 
may seem of opportunity for heroic action. For, 
as truth and honor, courtesy and gentleness, purity 
and faith can never grow old ; as valor and courage, 
kindliness of heart and knightliness of soul, are 
ever the highest orders of nobility ; so all days 
may be full of chivalry, all deeds may be instinct 
with that earnestness of purpose that lives in the 
heart of every well-regulated girl or boy. 

In the belief that this earnestness of purpose 
has been a part of girl and boy nature from the 
earliest times, however it may have been dulled by 
unhelpful surroundings or marred by unchecked 
passions, the author of this volume seeks to present 
a few pictures in outline suggestive of certain his- 
toric scenes in which the girls and boys of the past 
have been central or subordinate figures. Few of 
these young people are models ; all of them are 
human. For boys have been boys and girls have 
been girls from the days of ancient Thebes to those 
of modern London and New York. In every age 
young hearts have throbbed with hopes and fears ; 
young lives have felt alike the joy of triumph and 
iii 

v ' i 


IV 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


the gloom of defeat. But from gloom, as from tri- 
umph, may come and have come a strength of pur- 
pose and a manliness of character that show in the 
gentleness of a life its true chivalry, and in its 
thoughtfulness for others the noblest and most 
helpful deeds. Not alone to the youth of his own 
knightly days but to the boys and girls of every age 
might be committed that definition of chivalry 
given by Sir Philip Sidney, the hero of Zutphen : 

“ High erected thoughts seated in the heart of 
courtesy.” 

Of the stories presented in this volume, three 
have already appeared in the pages of St. Nicholas 
magazine, viz.: “The Story of the Field of the 
Cloth of Gold,” “ The Cloister of the Seven Gates,” 
and “ The Little Lord of the Manor.” One — 
“ The Captain of the Caravel ” — has been freely 
adapted from the French of that most charming of 
historic-story tellers — Mme. Eugenie Foa, and 
based upon an excellent translation by Mrs. N. P. 
Harrison ; the remaining stories have been specially 
written for this volume. 

Grateful acknowledgment is here made to the 
Century Co. and the editor of St. Nicholas, for the 
use of certain cuts needed for the volume, as also 
to the Brooklyn Library for the freedom of its 
valuable reference collection. 



CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. — Cinderella’s Ancestor i 

( Thebes , B.C. 2500) 

II. — The Favored of Baal 23 

( Carthage , B.C. 238) 

III. — The Gage of a Princess . ... 45 

{Rome, A.D. 292) 

IV. — The Tell-tale Foot . . . yi 

{Paris, A.D. 750) 

V. — “ The Rede of the Elves ” ... 98 

( Winchester, A.D. 856) 

VI. — The Boys of Blackfriars . . .124 

{London, A.D. 1381) 


VII. — The Cloister of the Seven Gates . 148 

{Karanovatz, A.D. 1389) 

VIII. — The Story of the Field of the Cloth 


of Gold 169 

{England and France , A.D. 1520) 

I. — How Rauf Bulney spoiled his Crimson 

Cloak 169 

II. — How the Kings met in the Golden 

Valley . . . . . . .189 

III. — How Margery Carew got her Glit- 
tering Chain 207 

V 


VI 


CHIVALRIC DAYS . 


IV. — How the Queens dined without 


Eating 222 

IX. — “ Monsieur, the Captain of the Caravel,” 237 

{North Sea , A . D . 1666) 

I. — The Gentlemen-Volunteers . . . 237 

II. — In English Waters ..... 253 

III. — The Battle ....... 271 


X. — The Little Lord of the Manor . . 283 

(New York , A . D . 1783) 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Margery’s Champion ..... Frontispiece 
The House of Seb-u . . . . 4 

The Daughter of the lord Khu-a ..... 6 

In the Temple of Pasht 7 

“He Sat Heedless of their Words” .... 13 

The Queen Nitocris . . . . . .21 

The Merchants of Carthage Attacked by Romans . 25 

The Young Hannibal ....... 29 

Hannibal before the Altar . . . 39 

Hannibal Crossing the Alps 4 1 

Hannibal . . ...... 43 

“ 1 Way There ; Way for our Master and our Lord ! ’ ” . 47 

Diocletian the Emperor, who was called “the Just” . 51 

“ He Sat in the Atrium Playing with the Pet Pigeons of 

the Princess ” ...•••• 55 

“ The Wise Anthimus ” and his Scroll 59 

“ Constantine Leaped into the Arena ” . . 63 

The Vision of Constantine 67 

Constantine ^9 

“ She was so Occupied with Embroidery and Missal . 75 

Pepin the Short . . • -79 

Bertha & 1 

“ The Old King Ethelwulf was Sick at Heart ” . . 102 

“ ‘ Rede of the Elves art Thou ’” io 9 

The Approach of the Danes . . • • • • IT 3 

King Alfred Inciting the Anglo-Saxons to Repel the 
Danes, a.i>. 867 


15 



CIIIVALKIC DA VS. 


viii 

Alfred at Ashdown . . . . . . 1 19- 

King Alfred the Great . . . . . . .121 

Watching King Richard Go by . . . . .129 

“ He had Walked and Thought ” . 132 

Richard II. ........ 139 

“‘I am no Judge for either Man or Child,’ said the 

Voivode Milosh ” ....... 155 

At Kosovo . . . . . . . . .163, 

The Courier of the Cardinal . . . . .171 

Henry of England, with his Great Ships, Crossing over 

to Calais . . . . . . . . -183. 

Rauf and Margery . . . . . . .185 

The Meeting of the Kings ...... 201 

Armor of Francis of France . . . . .215 

Armor of Henry of England . . . .219 

The Two Kings Try a Wrestling-Match . . . 227 

“The King of France, who was an Expert Wrestler, 
Tripped up the Heels of his Brother of England, 
and Gave him a Marvellous Somerset ” . . . 229 

“ In the Verdant Vales of Surrey” .... 235 

Off Colchester Towers ...... 239 

“ A Little Maiden of St. Paul ” ..... 241 

“ ‘ I am the Royal Pilot’s Mate,’ he replied ” . . . 245 

“Which of us two Commands this Caravel?” . . 255 

Admiral Michael de Ruyter ...... 269 

“Wherever his Caravel Sailed, English Vessels I, earned 

to Fear the Name of Jean Bart ” 279 

Captain Jean Bart . . . .281 

In the Duane Mansion ....... 284 

“ ‘ Oh, Sir,’ said Dolly, * let the Child Go ’ " . . . 289 

“ He Opened the Coach-Door just as Mistress Dolly was 

Preparing to Descend ”...... 299 

General Washington ....... 307 


CINDERELLA’S ANCESTOR. 

(A Story of the Days of the Pharaoh ,) 

[k.c. 2500.] 

Many, many years ago — so many 
indeed, that it is difficult for the 
student of history to decide just 
where fiction ends and fact begins — 
there lived in ancient Pi-bast, the 
“ City of the Sacred Cats,” a man 
whose name was Seb-u. Now Pi- 
bast, which you can find in your 
maps of Egypt under its later names of Bubastis 
or Tel-bast, was a very curious city. Its ruins may 
still be seen in that part of Northern Egypt known 
as the Delta of the Nile, about fifty miles north- 
east of the still more wonderful ruins of Memphis. 
In the centre of the city rose the heavy wall of 
the great temple to Pasht, the cat-faced goddess in 
whose honor the city was built. All around this 
central temple the fluted columns of the corridors 
ran in circle beyond circle ; while, beyond the sa- 
cred groves and gardens of the temple, stretched 
the great city in every direction. 



2 


CHIVALRIC DA YS . 


But the temples and corridors, the groves and 
gardens were by far the most pleasant portion of 
this singular city. For the houses in which the 
people lived were but poor-looking affairs com- 
pared with our comfortable homes of to-day. They 
were small one-story hovels, few of them containing 
more than one room, and built of sun-dried bricks 
or Nile mud. But, because this ancient city was 
so different from those of our day, you must not 
imagine that it was an unpleasant town to live in, 
or that the boys and girls who played around its 
mud houses, and walked in procession to its stately 
temple and through its sacred groves did not enjoy 
life quite as much as the boys and girls of to-day. 

In fact, if we may believe the old records, al- 
though Egypt in those far distant days was full of 
sombre and gloomy manners and customs, this old, 
old town in the Nile Delta was about the jolliest 
spot in all Egypt. For it was built on purpose for 
the worship of the most attractive of the long list of 
the curious deities of ancient Egypt. This was 
Pasht, the goddess of light and fire, of song and 
music, of pleasure and social delights. She had 
the body of a woman and th£ head of a cat. 
Throughout all Egypt cats were thought to be 
under her special protection. When a pet cat died 
it was wrapped up like a mummy, according to the 
Egyptian custom, and sent to the temple of Pasht 


CINDERELLA' S ANCESTOR. 


3 


to be buried, and in almost every Egyptian house 
could be found a little cat-headed image of this be- 
loved goddess, made of clay or bronze. 

Now the manufacture of these images of the cat- 
goddess was the business of Seb-u. He lived in 
one of the mud houses not far from the entrance to 
the grove of the temple and near the great road- 
way, four hundred feet wide, that ran from the tem- 
ple of Pasht to the river Nile. 

At certain seasons of the year people from all 
part of Egypt would come floating down the Nile, 
in gayly decorated barges, with men playing on the 
flutes of lotus wood, and women clanging the 
wooden cymbals, while all the rest, men, women, 
and children, accompanied the music with hearty 
hand-clapping and the chanting of songs in honor 
of the goddess. Then when they had sailed up 
the canal to the landing at the foot of the Street 
of the Temple, they proceeded in joyful procession 
down the sloping roadway to the statued vestibule 
of the great shrine. At such time Seb-u was cer- 
tain to do a large business in the sale of his bronze 
and clay images of the goddess Pasht to the wor- 
shippers who wer£ thus thronging to her temple. 

His house was larger and even better than most 
of the houses in Pi-bast. For Seb-u had been a 
thrifty and prosperous maker of images and was 
fairly well-to-do. His only daughter Nit, or as the 


4 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


neighbors called her Nit-aker, “the perfect Nita,” 
had been almost since her babyhood his companion 
and helper. But now Seb-u had married Nebt-hepet, 
the widow of Ari-bek, the armorer, and Nebt-hepet 
did not love Nita, but sought to turn Seb-u against 
his daughter, whom he had always loved so much. 

Probably Nebt-hepet disliked Nita because of 
the fair face and light hair which the girl had in- 



THE HOUSE OF SEB-U. 


herited from her Libyan mother, and which this 
dark and swarthy step-mother from Southern 
Egypt could not endure. 

So poor little Nita found her life a burden, a sad 
thing indeed for a gay-hearted maiden of thirteen. 
But girls mature much more rapidly in that warm 
southern country than in our colder northern land, 
and at thirteen Nita was really quite a young lady. 
The old hieroglyphics baked in sun-dried brick and 



CINDERELLA ' S A NCESTOR. 


5 


packed away for centuries in musty vaults have 
faithfully kept, through the ages, the record of the 
rare beauty of this young Egyptian girl, and tell of 
her exquisite face and form, her rosy cheeks, and 
her flowing auburn hair. 

One day, near to the season of the great festival 
of Pasht, as the family of the image-maker were, 
according to an Egyptian custom, eating the even- 
ing meal just outside the open window of his shop, 
Seb-u said to his daughter : 

“And whom, Nita, do you suppose the good 
priests of Pasht will select for the grove-girl at the 
feast ? ” 

Now the grove-girl was usually the most beauti- 
ful or the most wealthy of all the maidens of Pi- 
bast, selected to sit upon a decorated throne in the 
midst of the sacred groves of Pasht and receive 
the homage of the gay revellers as the representa- 
tive of the goddess of light and beauty. To be 
selected for such a post was of course esteemed as 
a high honor by all the girls of Pi-bast, and Nita’s 
reply was therefore a very natural one. 

“ I know not, my father,” she said. “ Would 
that the good fortune could be mine.” 

“Thine indeed!” exclaimed her step-mother 
scornfully. “ Thine indeed ! As if the good priests 
would select such a pink-faced doll as thou to sit 
enthroned in honor of the glorious black-haired 


6 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


goddess. It is more like to be the daughter of the 
Lord Khu-a, the treasurer, or, perchance the beau- 
tiful Ha-shop, with the black eyes and the hair like 



night, much more like to the great goddess than 
such as thou.” 

“ So, so, good Nebt-hepet,” said Seb-u, anxious 
to avoid a scene, and yet quite as anxious to defend 



“in the temple of pasht. 

(From a picture by A. Calbet.) 


7 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


his fair young daughter, “ fret not thyself over our 
child’s face, so like to her beautiful mother’s — ” 

“ Beautiful, say’st thou ! ” broke out the angry 
Nebt-hepet, springing up from her leopard-covered 
camp-chair in such a rage as to send both the small 
bronze tea-table and her own good husband sprawl- 
ing on the ground. “Wilt thou never have done 
prating of that washed-out Libyan woman, with 
hair of tow and eyes of faded blue ? Thou art a 
fool with thy talk of her beauty and of this lazy 
one’s chances for the grove-girl’s throne, when thou 
dost know that she is no more like to sit thereon 
than is the crocodile of Sa-vak to dance in the 
sacred grove with the beetle of Ptah.” 

“ But nevertheless,” said Seb-u, quietly, as he 
picked himself from the ground with the help of 
Nita and bade the slave gather up the scattered 
dishes, “but nevertheless, good Nebt-hepet, thou 
art likely to be wrong, for A-up-eth, the priest, did 
tell me this day, when he took from me the silver 
Pasht whose nose I had repaired, that the priests 
were decided to desire our Nita of us as the grove 
girl at the feast.” 

And so indeed it proved. For even before little 
Nita had fully recovered from her joyful surprise 
and the jealous Nebt-hepet from her torrent of 
angry words, there came to the image-maker’s shop 
two priests from the great temple and a throng of 


CINDERELLA' S ANCESTOR. 


9 


gay young devotees requesting him to give to them 
his daughter Nita to sit at the feast on the grove- 
girl’s throne in the sacred grove of Pasht. 

The time of the festival arrived. The gay barges 
with crowds of musicians and singers and a curious 
freight of fruits and flowers and mummied cats 
floated down the river and through the broad 
canals to the landing-place before the temple. For 
days crowds upon crowds of pilgrims, by thousands 
and tens of thousands, thronged the broad paved 
roadway, jostled one another in the brilliant corri- 
dors, bowed in worship before the great bronze 
image of the goddess, and danced and sang and 
feasted in the sacred groves of Pasht. 

And in the midst of the great grove, upon her 
gayly decorated throne sat the royal grove-girl of 
the festival, Nita the daughter of Seb-u, the image- 
maker. The fairest youths and maidens of the 
great city gathered around her as her attendants 
and chanted hymns to Pasht, while the throng of 
pilgrims, passing and repassing, praised the grove- 
girl’s beauty and laid their offerings at her feet. 

Nita was dressed in a long robe of crimson inter- 
woven with patterns in gold ; around her waist was 
a broad purple sash decorated with silver figures of 
the goddess Pasht, a wreath of lotus leaves encir- 
cled her fair head, while her pretty feet were en- 
cased in sandals of bronzed leather, decorated with 


IO 


CII1VALRIC DA YS. 


silver cat-heads and trimmed with fur. And it is 
because of these beautiful sandals that this story of 
“the perfect Nita” has come down, through all the 
centuries to us. 

One day, almost the last in this season of festi- 
val, as Nita sat in the centre of her throng of at- 
tendants, the “ toe piece ” of her sandal became 
loosened and the shoe slipped to the ground. At 
once three of the attendants sprang to pick it up, 
and a friendly rivalry for its possession ensued. 
Then one of the three, Kam-on, the chief hunts- 
man of the temple, wishing to show his skill at 
juggling and ball-tossing, flung the sandal high in 
air, intending to catch the pretty thing as it fell, 
holding one hand above his back. 

But alas for Kam-on’s intentions. For, as the 
bronzed sandal went whirling through the air, a 
great black eagle circling aloft on the watch for 
prey, caught the gleam of the whirling slipper, and 
supposing it to be some choice and most appetizing 
bird, swooped down upon it, caught it in his strong 
talons, and sailing majestically off through the 
clear Egyptian air, bore the dainty slipper far away 
from the sacred groves of Pasht. 

But oh, what a wail went up from the grove- 
girl’s startled attendants as they saw the slipper dis- 
appearing from their sight ; and oh, what a scolding 
poor Nita received from her angry step-mother 


CINDERELLA'S ANCESTOR. n 

when she came home that night with one dainty 
sandal of bronze leather, silver, and fur, and one old 
and soiled sandal of twisted papyrus and palm ! 

In the royal palace at Memphis sat the young 
Pharaoh Nebi, the “ divine lord,” the “ victorious 
and ever-living He,” king of the two Egypts, and 
known in history by his throne name of Nofer- 
ka-ra, “ the splendid brother of the great god of the 
sun.” 

But for all his splendor and greatness the young 
King Nebi was not entirely happy. He was 
bored and tired, and longed for a change. For it is 
possible, boys and girls, even for. those who have 
every desire gratified and every wish fulfilled, to 
feel bored by too much indulgence. The young 
Pharaoh Nebi, king in the mighty city of Memphis, 
longed for something — he knew not what. 

And it was a mighty city. With walls seventeen 
miles in circuit, stretching from the splendid harbor 
on the Nile to the border of the western desert, a 
day’s journey from wall to wall ; with temples 
and gardens and palaces beautiful to see ; with 
monuments of marble and alabaster ; with granite 
walls and citadels, and a population of over half a 
million souls — such four thousand years ago was 
Men-nofer, “ the good place,” known to us under 
the later Greek name of Memphis. 


2 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


And here in the open court-yard of his royal 
palace, overlooking the mighty dity from the 
“ white wall ” to the distant pyramids, sat the 
young Pharaoh Nebi, “the brother of the sun.” 
And as he sat thus, heedless of the words of his 
councillors and the reports of his household offi- 
cers, suddenly there dropped into his lap, even into 
the folds of his kingly robe, something small and 
hard. With an exclamation of surprise the young 
king started from his revery, and looking up into 
the clear sky, he saw sailing majestically toward 
the desert a great African eagle. Then the Erpa 
and the Ha, the Set and the Semner-nat, the Mur 
and the Sehat, the Ur and Emkhet — all high offi- 
cers of state — looked troubled and surprised. The 
high-steward of the household bade the chief mas- 
ter of the singers to direct the bailiff of the ward- 
robe to ask the overseer of the bath to request the 
steward of the royal hair and nails to commission 
the teacher of mysteries to remove this heaven-sent 
omen from the royal robe and announce its mean- 
ing. But even before this round-about order had 
gone half through its necessary amount of “ red 
tape ” the young Pharaoh had himself thrust his 
own royal hand into the folds of the royal robe 
and drawn out — a little sandal of bronzed leather, 
stamped in silver and trimmed with fur. 

“ Now, by the wig of Turn,” cried the young 







» i 


HE SAT HEEDLESS OF 


THEIR WORDS. 


13 








M 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


monarch, looking at this strange gift of the eagle 
in delighted surprise, “ but this is wondrous fair. 
To whom, think ye, my honored ones, doth this san- 
dal belong, and what doth it bode to the realm ? ” 
Then Erpa and Ur, and Set, and Semner-nat, 
and all the other officers around the throne tried to 
appear wise, but only looked puzzled. 

At length the teacher of mysteries said : 

“ ’T is an omen from the evil gods, O king, I 
fear. For the eagle is sacred to none of the gods 
of Kern,* and a messenger, not sacred, could bring 
naught but an evil omen to the brother of the sun. 
Touch it not, O king ; it is bes / ” f 

“ Not so,” said the king, decidedly ; “ this can 
be no evil omen. It hath been worn and by a 
most fair and dainty foot. No maiden of Memphis 
hath foot fitted for such a shoe, and she who can 
wear so small and fair a creation must be won- 
drous fair herself. You have wished me, my 
honored ones, to take unto myself a queen. 
Hear, then, my words. Only she who hath the 
mate of this dainty sandal, and can wear them 
both, shall share my throne. Find me the owner 
of this little shoe, and you do find the wife and con- 
sort of your Pharaoh.” 

At this there'was general consternation among 
the officers of state. Was King Nebi mad ? 

* Kem, the Black Land, the Egyptian name of Egypt, 
f Uncanny, unlucky. 


CINDERELLA' S ANCESTOR. 15 

From the teacher of mysteries to the steward of 
the royal finger-nails ran a shudder of apprehen- 
sion. Suppose this fair unknown should be of no 
official family — suppose she were one of the “ mob,” 
as the common people were called. But none dared 
to protest openly. Young Nebi was resolved, and 
none among them was so rash as to tamper with 
the will of a Pharaoh. 

“ Test we the oracle, my honored ones,” he said. 
“ If that the sacred bull, the divine Apis, doth give 
his sanction to my desire, then would I find and wed 
the owner of this sandal. I have spoken.” 

That very day, in solemn and splendid proces- 
sion, the king and his attendants sought the abode 
of the sacred bull, Apis, in the magnificent temple 
of Ptah. With children leading the way, crowned 
with flowers and singing hymns to Apis, with 
guards bearing the royal signals, and nobles with 
the sacred oil, the king walked to the splendid tem- 
ple, and when the lamps and the incense upon the 
altar had been lighted, and an offering of gold had 
been laid thereon, the king himself, approaching 
the sacred stall, held out the mysterious sandal to 
the Apis — a beautiful Egyptian bull, with the mys- 
tic markings in black and white. His sacred bull- 
ship first sniffed at the proffered sandal and then, 
opening his sacred lips, he licked the little shoe 
with his sacred tongue. The oracle was propi- 


1 6 CHIVALRIC DAYS. 

tious. At once, “ with a divine impulse,” says the 
record, “ the boys who stood about the sacred stall 
poured out the prediction in perfect rhythm.” 
And in the midst of this hymn of rejoicing- the 
young King Nebi spread out his offering of much 
gold upon the altar of Ptah, and went away joyful 
and delighted, for he had set his heart upon a gra- 
cious answer. 

And now throughout the kingdom, north and 
south, east and west, went the swift messengers of 
the Pharaoh seeking the maiden who possessed 
the mate to the sandal of bronzed leather, stamped 
in silver and trimmed with fur. 


Of course you can imagine the rest. It is 
fairy story, but it is history none the less. The 
messengers of the king came to the city of Pi-bast. 
They sought out the Lord Hap-u, the governor of 
the city, and the priests of the temple of Pasht. 
And the Lord Hap-u and the priests could tell them 
all they desired to know. The story of the grove- 
girl, the eagle, and the lost sandal matched pre- 
cisely the story of the king, the eagle, and the 
sandal dropped from the clouds. There could be 
no doubt about it ; the bride of “ his Holiness, 
Nofer-ka-ra, the king,” was to be found in sacred 
Pi-bast, and the messengers of the Pharaoh hastened 
to the house of Seb-u, the image-maker. 


CINDERELLA' S ANCESTOR. 


7 


If it had not been that she was a fast-bound and 
loyal wife, Nebt-hepet herself would have tried 
very hard to squeeze her fat foot into that little 
sandal. But it was of no use. Good fortune was 
on the side of Nita, her step-daughter ; the trim 
little foot fitted the dainty, sandal exactly ; the 
mate to it was produced and worn, and in less than 
a month, with feasting and flowers and song and 
the usual amount of display that attended the mar- 
riage ceremony of an Egyptian and a king, Nita, 
the daughter of Seb-u, the image-maker, was mar- 
ried to Nebi Nofer-ka-ra, and became therewith 
Nit-aker, queen of Egypt. 

And now I wish that I could close this story with 
the usual joyful announcement : “ So they were 
married and lived happily ever after.” But at this 
point, alas, history and fairy story part company. 
For after King Nebi had ruled at Memphis for six 
years with Nita as his queen, the Mur and the 
Erpa, the Ha and the Emkhet, and the other high 
officers of state, who had never recovered from the 
slight put upon their order when the Pharaoh Nebi 
selected a wife from among the “ mob,” conspired 
against the poor king and murdered him. 

Then Nitocris, the queen, — for this is the Greek 
and therefore the historical name of the Egyptian 
Nit-aker, — was raised to the throne of the two 
Egypts as queen supreme. She mourned for her 
murdered husband, but in secret, for she was con- 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


templating a deep and fearful revenge upon his 
assassins. In those days, long, long before the 
light of Christianity and the Golden Rule had 
come upon the earth, men and women knew but 
one force — the force of Might, and but one law — 
the law of Revenge, and Queen Nitocris, beau- 
tiful and high-minded though she was, had been 
schooled in this faith and knew no other. 

So when the “ splendid brother of the great god 
of the sun,” the “ ever-living and victorious He,” 
had been wrapped in the mummy-cloths and laid 
away in the pyramid he had prepared as his tomb, 
Nitocris, the queen, following the custom of the 
Egyptian monarchs, set about preparing a pyramid 
for her own memorial. 

To the north and west of the old city of Mem- 
phis, on the very edge of the great Libyan desert, 
may be seen the pyramids— those vast masses of 
hewn stone and masonry that for forty centuries 
have stood as the records of an ancient world. 
Near to the pyramid of Cheops, the giant of the 
pyramids, and to the other and scarcely less gigan- 
tic one of Chefren, to the north of Memphis, there 
stood in the days of Queen Nitocris an unfinished 
pyramid, known then as Kha-nofer, “ the beautiful 
rising,” hewn out of the hard granite in the quar- 
ries of Assouan, and commenced years before as 
the memorial of one of the royal ancestors of 
King Nebi, the Pharaoh Mer-en-ra the Pious. 


CINDERELLA'S ANCESTOR. 


19 


This pyramid Queen Nitocris determined to 
finish as her own monument, and at once the labor- 
ing classes of Memphis and the country round 
about had plenty of work to do — quarrying, trans- 
porting, hoisting, setting, and securing the great 
blocks of granite and the polished limestone slabs. 
This doubled the original pyramid of King Mer- 
en-ra, and gave it the costly ornamental casing of 
polished granite which has made this monument of 
Queen Nitocris, covering a space of more than two 
acres, the most beautiful of all the pyramids. 

But beneath the pyramid the queen ordered her 
architect to construct a great subterranean cham- 
ber, and while this was being done she commanded 
also the secret construction of a sluice-way, or 
aqueduct connecting this underground chamber 
with the high-water mark of the Nile. 

Once each year, in the latter part of the month 
of September, the great river rises fully thirty feet 
above low-water mark, inundating the land, and 
leaving, as it recedes, its deposit of rich and fertiliz- 
ing mud. It is a joyous season in Egypt, for this 
overflow of the Nile means fruitful crops and an 
abundant harvest. 

It was the Feast of the Inundation in the sixth 
year of the reign of Queen Nitocris. Erpa and 
Ha and Set and Semner-nat and all the high offi- 
cers of her state who were known or suspected to 
have been concerned in the assassination of King 


20 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Nebi were invited to celebrate the feast in the 
great subterranean chamber under Kha-nofer, the 
beautiful pyramid of Queen Nitocris. In glitter- 
ing procession, dressed in gorgeous robes, the 
guests of the queen traversed the broad roadway 
that led from the gates of Memphis to the entrance 
to the pyramid. In the underground chamber 
lights flashed on tables gleaming with splendid 
dishes filled with all the dainties that the Egyptian 
lords loved at their feasts. The wines of Mareotis 
and of Tenia sparkled in bronze and golden drink- 
ing cups, while all the guests praised the wisdom, 
the beauty, and the generosity of Nitocris their 
queen. The feast “ ran long and high,” and in the 
midst of the rejoicing the queen and her women 
withdrew ; she appeared at the entrance of the 
pyramid ; at a given signal the great door closed 
noiselessly; a secret floodgate was lifted; there 
came a rush “ as of mighty waters,” and of all that 
company of revellers not one was ever seen again. 
Waiting workmen carefully sealed the great door 
to the chamber, and to this day no man can tell 
where it is. 

Then Queen Nitocris repaired to her royal 
palace in Memphis, and all in her queenly robes 
flung herself down upon a heap of smouldering 
ashes from which arose the fumes of a poisonous 
gas. And thus she died. 

So the sixth dynasty of the kings of Egypt 



THE QUEEN NITOCRIS. 
(From an old relief.) 


21 


22 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


ended with the suicide of a relentless queen and a 
loyal wife. Her pyramid became her tomb, and a 
broken piece of a gilded sarcophagus and the mum- 
mied fragment of a woman’s hand are the only 
reminders discovered in the polished pyramid of 
that beautiful queen of four thousand years ago, 
whose remarkable story is still to be traced in curious 
hieroglyphics on the papyrus roll of the annals of the 
priests, now to be seen in the museum at Turin. 

But the story of the mysterious slipper and the 
heap of ashes lives in the folk-lore of every land, 
and we to-day, studying the childish legends in the 
light of historic facts, can read in the romantic and 
tragic history of the beautiful Nitocris, queen of 
Egypt, our own immortal fairy story of the peer- 
less Cinderella. 




II. 

THE FAVORED OF BAAL. 


{A Story of the Great A frican Republic.') 

[n.c. 238.] 

HERE was once upon a time a 
rocky headland jutting out into 
an azure sea. To-day headland 
and sea still feel the glory and 
fervor of the warm southern sun, but only a waste 
of rock and sand and the mean houses of a little 
Moorish town mark the spot where, centuries ago, 
from the waters edge southward to the Libyan hills 
rose the walls and towers, the temples and palaces, 
the groves and gardens of a mighty city. 

Look upon your map of Africa for the country 
of modern Tunis on the northern shore of the 
great southern continent. Northeast of the city 
of Tunis you will see a promontory running out 
into the Mediterranean, terminating in the cape 
called Bon. In the broad sweep of the bay run- 
ning westward around to Cape Farina and now 
called the Gulf of Tunis, another promontory, 



23 



24 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


about six miles northeast from the modern city of 
Tunis, ran out into the sea. This was the site of 
ancient Carthage, one of the noblest cities of the 
long ago, founded nearly a thousand years before 
the Christian era by Dido Elissa, — the runaway 
Phoenician queen, whose romantic story you will 
some day read in Virgil’s great poem of the ^Eneid. 
Peopled thus by the Phoenicians, those adventurers, 
sailors, explorers, and merchants of the ancient 
world, Carthage soon grew to be a rich and pros- 
perous city. It had possessions and colonies all 
along the northern coast of Africa, in Sicily and 
Sardinia, in Spain and the Balearic Islands. Its 
galleys, rowed by well-trained oarsmen, had borne 
its gold and its merchandise into every Mediterra- 
nean port, and carried its great bronze standard of 
the Horse and the Palm-tree through the Straits of 
Gibraltar northward into the then unknown regions 
of France, of England, and of Ireland, and far 
southward along the unhealthy and tropical coasts 
of Western Africa. 

And, as to the city itself, even Grecian jealousy 
and Roman hate have not been able entirely to blot 
out the records of its glory and grandeur. From its 
sculptured sea-gate on the Mediterranean, and its 
magnificent colonnade of pillared docks, the splendid 
city stretched up the height, its streets running at 
right angles, and lined with shops and palaces and 
massive six-story houses, until it reached the land- 











I 


THE MERCHANTS OF CARTHAGE ATTACKED BY ROMANS. 









2 6 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


ward ramparts and the triple walls, in which were 
stabled the three hundred war elephants and the 
four thousand horses of the city’s garrison. 

And this splendid city of merchant princes was, 
itself, the capital of a great republic, with a con- 
stitution and a government in many ways similar 
to those of our own home-land of America. It had 
a house of representatives of three hundred mem- 
bers, a senate of thirty, and two presidents, or 
“suffetes,” duly elected to their official positions. 
In the broad and beautiful forum, or market-place, 
stood the senate-house, where, as in our own capi- 
tol at Washington, the law-makers met to frame 
laws, make treaties, and decide important questions 
of state. From the forum northward to the hill 
of Byrsa, or the Acropolis, ran the Via Salutaris or 
Street of Health, leading to the splendid temple of 
Hisculapius, where, in secret council the senate and 
the presidents debated over grave and important 
matters. 

At the date of our story, just two hundred and 
thirty-eight years before Christ, the two presidents 
were the Lord Hanno, the general of the army, 
and the Lord Hamilcar, the admiral of the fleets. 
The Lord Hanno was the representative of the 
aristocracy or rich men of Carthage, while the 
admiral Hamilcar was the representative of the 
democracy or people of the republic. 


THE FA VO RED OF BAAL. 


2 / 


Both the presidents, however, were very rich ; 
for the spoils of war and conquest had brought 
them great store of treasure, and the palace of the 
Lord Hamilcar Barca, the admiral, in the cypress- 
shaded garden of his great estate, just outside the 
city, was splendidly built and richly furnished. His 
name, Hamilcar, meant the favorite of Hercules, 
and the additional title of Barca meant the light- 
ning, so that his whole name signified “ the favor- 
ite of Hercules, terrible as the lightning.” 

From all this you will infer, and rightly, that the 
Lord Hamilcar Barca, was a very fiery and very 
successful soldier; and this opinion was likewise 
held by the people and the armies of Carthage, 
by the Romans who had many a time felt his 
power, and especially by the great admiral’s dearly 
loved son, the little ten-year-old Hannibal. 

At the time of our story the Lord Hamilcar 
Barca had just successfully conquered a terrible 
rebellion against the power of Carthage, brought 
about by the swarm of dissatisfied and underpaid 
foreign soldiery it had in its service. And because 
he had saved the republic from a fearful danger 
and from civil war, he was especially honored and 
made the head of the republic. Little Hannibal 
did not understand the reason for all this, but he 
knew that the streets of the great city rang with 
shouts and acclamations whenever the golden 


28 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


chariot of his father, drawn by four Numidian 
horses and surrounded by an escort of the “sacred 
band ” gorgeous in golden armor, rolled through 
the forum or up the Street of Health, and he felt 
that it was a fine thing to be the son of so 
great a man. For boys have loved the feeling 
of power and prominence in every age of the 
world’s history, and have made the most of their 
fathers’ glories and honors. 

And to-day as the boy stood in the glittering 
chariot by the side of his father the Admiral-Presi- 
dent, holding the ends of the silken reins that hung 
from the driver’s hands, one from among the shout- 
ing throng had thrown a wreath of olive leaves over 
the boy’s curly head, and all the people had clapped 
their hands in approval, and had shouted : “ Barca, 
Barca ! He is the son of Barca ! Hanna-Baal ; 
Hanna-Baal ! ” 

Now Baal was the great deity of the Phoenicians 
and the chief of all the gods of the Carthaginians, 
and Hanna-Baal, which was the name of this ten- 
year-old son of the admiral, meant the favored or 
favorite of the great god Baal. What wonder then 
that little Hannibal felt very proud and happy as 
he received all this attention and homage from 
that shouting throng. 

In the spreading shade of the thick cypress trees 
in the gardens of Megara — that beautiful suburb 



THE YOUNG HANNIBAL. 


2Q 



30 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


of Carthage in which stood the palace of Hamilcar 
— a little slave girl, whose fair face and golden hair 
proclaimed her to be one of the Gallic captives from 
across the sea, was playing with a small spotted 
guepard— the chetah or tamed tiger-cat which the 
old-time hunters of the East trained for the chase. 

The guepard, of course, did not belong to the 
little Gallic slave girl. The bond-servants of the 
Carthaginians had but few pleasures and fewer 
pets. Like all the slaves of those old days, they 
were ground down by hard work and still harder 
taskmasters. But Hamilcar Barca was a kind and 
lenient lord, and the throng of slaves upon his 
great estate were better cared for and more justly 
treated than the majority of their comrades. Still 
the little Gyptis knew that it was not right for her 
to unloose and play with her young lord’s pet tiger- 
cat. Child-like, though, she enjoyed the sport all 
the more because it was a forbidden pleasure. 
Why is it that things we ought not to do seem so 
much more attractive and fascinating than those 
we know we can do ? 

A long trumpet peal rang out on the sultry air. 
The narrow gateway was flung hastily open, and 
into the gardens dashed the chariot of the admiral. 
Little Hannibal sprang lightly to the ground, but 
as he saw the little slave girl trying to hide from 
his sight his spotted guepard, he ran toward her 


THE FA VORED OF BAAL. 


3 


with an angry word, and raised his hand to strike. 
But the voice of his father withheld him. 

“ Stop, my son,” said the admiral-president. 
“ He who is the Favored of Baal should not lift 
hand against a slave. It is a craven dog that doth 
devour the herds it should protect.” 

The bright little fellow understood his fathers 
meaning, and with a flushed face he lowered his 
uplifted hand. Instead of striking the crouching 
slave girl he cast around the leopard’s neck the 
flower-chain of roses and pomegranates that the 
girl had woven, and together, boy and girl, master 
and slave, raced gayly away with the tiger-cat still 
deeper into the sunlit gardens. 

The manner of the trained guepard was much 
like that of the domestic dog or cat, and the three 
playmates were soon having a glorious romp under 
the cypress trees, for boys and girls could play at 
jolly games in those old days, quite as heartily as 
they can to-day. But suddenly, as they rolled in 
a tangled heap at the foot of a giant cork-tree, 
there came a rush of wings, and a mighty bird — 
one of the strongest and fiercest of the species 
known as the lammergeyer, or bearded vulture — 
swooped down and twined its strong talons in the 
flimsy, veil-like tunic of the Gallic slave girl. The 
guepard, surprised and startled by the descent of 
the great bird, slunk frightened away ; the girl 


32 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


screamed in terror ; but young Hannibal, tearing 
off his short purple mantle, threw it over the bird’s 
white head, and then valiantly flinging his arms 
about its body strove to tear it away from the 
struggling girl. The vulture, thus blinded and 
attacked, beat about with its mighty wings, while 
endeavoring at the same time to release its envel- 
oped head and its entangled talons. But though 
bruised and buffeted by the vulture’s wings, young 
Hannibal manfully held his ground, and as the 
bird’s feet became free from the meshes of poor 
Gyptis’ veil, “ the dauntless boy,” so the record says, 
“seized the great bird more firmly in his clutch 
and pressed it against his chest,” actually strang- 
ling the vulture in his strong and sinewy grasp. 

There was a cry of delight from the avenue of 
palm-trees, and as boy and bird fell to the ground, 
the one exhausted and the other dead, the Admiral 
Hamilcar came into the cork-tree’s shade and say- 
ing, proudly, “ So, son of Hercules, there spake 
the blood of heroes,” he caught the boy in his arms 
and praised and petted him. 

“ He who defends the weak and dares attack the 
fierce,” he said, “ is worthy to stand within the war- 
chariot and face the charge of the elephants. My 
Hannibal will yet prove his valor as a son of Mago.”* 

* Mago was the father of Queen Dido, the founder of Carthage, and was 
the ancestor to whom the family of Hannibal traced their descent. 


THE FA VORED OF BAAL . 


33 


Then, taking the boy, though still so young, into 
his confidence as they sat upon the northern 
terrace of the palace and looked out upon the blue 
Mediterranean and toward the Italian coast, the 
admiral told his son of the might and power of 
Carthage, of the bitter enemies of the great re- 
public who in distant Rome prayed and plotted for 
its downfall, and how it was for all true sons of 
Carthage to be loyal and strong in her honor and 
defence. He told how even now, the great city 
was becoming weakened and nerveless because 
its citizens knew but one desire, that of gain and 
gold, instead of striving for the strengthening and 
glory of the republic ; and he told him also that 
the time must surely come when the power of en- 
vious and relentless Rome would once again be 
hurled against the splendid city in deadly conflict, 
either to destroy or be destroyed. 

“ He who can stay his hand from striking a 
helpless slave and yet can crush the vulture in his 
strong young arms ; he who can hold the tiger-cat 
in leash and guide his father’s war-steeds while yet 
a boy like you,” thus spoke the loving admiral, “ is 
one whom the republic may hope either to exalt 
in honor or to mourn gloriously.” 

That very night, in secret council within the tem- 
ple of zEsculapius, the senate of Carthage decided 
to strike a blow at Roman supremacy by extending 


I 


34 CHIVALRIC DA YS. 

the power of Carthage in the rich peninsula of 
Spain, and the Lord Hamilcar Barca, the admiral, 
was invested with the sole command of the armies 
and the fleets. Remembrance of Roman greed and 
cruelty and dread of Rome’s increasing power 
urged the brave admiral to accept, and this he did, 
only stipulating that the Lord Hasdrubal, whom 
the people of Carthage greatly loved, should be his 
second in command, and that men and means in 
plenty should be given him for the work of con- 
quest. 

The wonderful gardens of Hamilcar’s palace lay 
bathed in all the glory of the mid-winter month of 
Schebaz, the most perfect season in the Cartha- 
ginian year. The pomegranate trees were brilliant 
with their crimson flowers, while rose and fig-tree, 
cypress and sycamore, gave varied color to the bril- 
liant scene. The terraced palace of spotted Nu- 
midian marble, four stories in height, glittered in the 
sun as down the broad stairway came the admiral- 
president to enter his gorgeous chariot. The noble 
Carthaginian was a tall and superbly built man of 
about thirty years. His splendid tunic of the 
violet silk of Tyre glittered with its golden brocade 
of vines and grapes, boots of gilded leather covered 
his feet, a collar of gems encircled his neck, large 
pearl pendants hung from his ears, a golden helmet 
covered his head, and his short bronzed battle-sword 


THE FA VOTED OF BAAL. 


35 


hung at his side. The old Carthaginians had the 
real African love of display and of brilliant colors 
and ornaments. 

The Admiral Hamilcar waited for the restive 
chariot horses to calm their prancing and curvet- 
ting, and, just as he was about to spring into his 
chariot, down the broad stairway like a rush of 
flame flashed the red mantle of the little Hannibal. 

“ Let me too ride in the chariot with you, my 
father,” he cried, “and bid Iddibal give me the 
reins, that I may guide the horses through the 
Street of Health.” 

Hamilcar lifted the boy until young Hannibal’s 
curly head rested upon his father’s helmet-crest. 

“Nay, not at this hour, my boy,” he said, “for 
this is scarce a day for lads to trifle with affairs of 
state. This morning, my Hannibal, I seek the 
shrine of Hercules and the temple of the mighty 
Baal to crave the favor of the great gods upon my 
work in Spain.” 

At once the boy flung his arms about his father’s 
neck, regardless of the gemmed collar and the 
violet tunic. 

“Oh, then, my father,” he cried, “let me too go 
with you. Did you not tell me that a son of the 
republic should gladly give himself up to its honor 
and defence? And what am I, my father, but a 
son of Carthage ? ” 


3 6 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Hamilcar smoothed the restless young head and 
said gravely : “ Alas, my boy, little can you know 
the full meaning of your words. I go to the tem- 
ple to pledge my strength and life against the 
power of relentless Rome.” 

“ Aye, but let me too go, my father,” persisted 
young Hannibal with eager voice. “ Let me too 
touch the victims and stand by your side at the 
altar. . See ” — and unclasping his encircling arms, 
he raised one brown and sturdy little fist aloft and 
shook it with vindictive energy — “see, my father; 
I, too, hate Rome !” 

In an age when the test of courage was hatred 
rather than forgiveness, centuries before the “eye 
for an eye ” of Judea and of Rome had given place 
to the divine “ Love your enemies ” of the Sermon 
on the Mount, such a burst of passion as was this 
of young Hannibal’s was the surest way to a war- 
like father’s heart. 

“ My noble boy,” cried Hamilcar with the deep- 
est emotion, “ I do believe that you do mean all 
your fiery words. Great Hercules, my patron, did, 
even in his cradle, strangle the two mighty serpents 
sent for his destruction, and who can say that this 
son of mine, even though but a boy, may not do 
some mighty deed for Carthage and for Baal ? 
Will you go with your father to Spain and to 
glory, my Hannibal?” 


THE FA VORED OF BAAL. 


37 


Go ? would he not indeed ? What boy of any 
spirit would say no to such a question, whatever 
his name and nation ? 

And as young Hannibal sprang to his fathers 
side and took the chariot reins from Iddibal the 
driver, it would be hard to decide which was the 
proudest of the three — the manly little boy so full 
of energy and ambition, the noble admiral his 
father, or grim old Iddibal the charioteer, who 
had himself trained the eye and hand of this 
brave little lad to be free and fearless, steady 
and strong. 

So they rode on to the city, under the arches of 
the aqueduct, through the cheering streets and the 
crowded forum until, at last, turning into the Street 
of Baal, they dashed up the height upon the crest 
of which stood the great temple of Baal Hammon, 
the supreme sun-god of the ancient Phoenicians and 
their descendants, the people of Carthage. 

It was a noble edifice, a great vaulted and cir- 
cular building two hundred feet across, its solid 
masonry rising high in air and surmounted with a 
triple dome. It was richly carved and decorated, 
and its twelve gates looked out over the mighty 
city, the rolling African plains, and the sparkling 
waters of the Mediterranean. Even Roman hate 
and destruction could not entirely obliterate it, and 
to-day the ruined pedestals of its twelve massive, 


33 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


fluted columns may still be seen lifting themselves 
above that waste of African sand and rock. 

In the centre of this circular temple stood the 
great brazen image of Baal — the god to whose 
worship the faithless Hebrews so often turned in 
the ancient days, the one whose priests the grand 
old prophet, Elijah the Tishbite, put to shame on 
the slopes of Mount Carmel, and whose magnificent 
altar the wicked Phoenician princess, J ezebel, of T yre, 
reared in the very court of Ahab, King of Israel. 

His rites were bloody and cruel, fit type of what, 
even in a beautiful and cultured city, may be done 
under the dark and vindictive faiths of Paganism. 
A noble war-horse, one of the fleetest and choicest 
of Hamilcar’s stables,* lay bound upon the great 
altar, and as the knife of the priest let out the life- 
blood of the noble animal, Hamilcar the admiral 
placed one hand upon the victim and raising the 
other aloft toward the hideous brazen image with 
its head of an ox and its outstretched, open hands, 
he craved the favor of Baal, “ Lord of heaven and 
god of time,” to favor his new efforts for the good 
and glory of Carthage. 

“ Then,” says Polybius, the old Greek historian, 
“when the libations and other rites were ended, 
Hamilcar, having commanded the rest that were 

* Horses were offered as sacrifices to Baal, under the belief that the swift- 
est of animals would be an acceptable offering to the swiftest of immortal 
beings. 







HANNIBAL BEFORE THE ALTAR. 













40 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


about the altar to retire, called Hannibal to him 
and caressed him.” 

“ My Hannibal,” he said, “ and do you still de- 
sire to go with me to the army and to Spain ? ” 

Even the sombre surroundings of that great 
temple of the ox-headed idol could not dampen 
the boy’s ardor or chill his hope of glory. 

“ I have said it, my father,” he replied, with sim- 
ple earnestness. 

“ Then touch the victim on the altar of Baal, my 
son, and say as I do bid you,” said Hamilcar. 

Boldly, yet with a serious and awe-filled face, the 
boy laid one hand upon the body of the sacrificed 
war-horse, and lifting the other as did his father, he 
repeated after him this oath of vengeance : 

“ Hear me, O Baal ; lord of the heavens and 
god of time ; king of the two zones. By the stars ; 
by the meteors ; by the volcanoes ; by all that which 
burns ; by the thirst of the desert ; by the saltness 
of the sea ; by the ashes of my ancestors ; I, Han- 
nibal, the son of Hamilcar, the son of Mago, ad- 
miral of the sea and ruler of the people, here 
before thee, Baal with the bull’s head, Baal the 
supreme, Baal Hammon, do swear eternal enmity 
to Rome ! Never to be friend or ally to Rome ; 
never to make treaty or alliance with Rome ; never 
to give succor or aid to Rome, but always and ever, 
to Rome, enmity and hate ! ” 



4i 


HANNIBAL CROSSING THE ALPS 



42 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


A senseless and stupid array of words these must 
seem to us ; a needless and unhealthy promise for a 
father to enforce or a boy to make. An oath of 
vengeance and of hatred seems like a very terrible 
thing to us in these more enlightened days of lib- 
erty and of law. But we must study the character 
of people in the light of the times in which they 
lived. Let every boy and girl who has become in- 
terested in this brave little Carthaginian lad read 
the later life of Hannibal and the story of the 
“ Punic wars ” and see what was the effect of this 
oath in the temple of Baal upon the life of this son 
of the admiral-president. It inspired him to learn 
thoroughly, even while a boy, the art of war, and 
upon the death of his victorious father and of the 
Lord Hasdrubal, it raised him, at the age of eighteen, 
to the sole command of the Carthaginian armies in 
Spain ; it impelled him to brave the force and 
power of Rome in her own possessions, and, by 
one of the most masterly and daring moves in all 
history, to lead his army of one hundred thousand 
men across the towering Alps, conquer Italy, and 
only just miss the capture of Rome itself. It made 
him the untiring enemy of Rome until the day of 
his death, and, in the year 183 b.c., to poison him- 
self rather than be the captive of Rome. 

So Hannibal kept his oath. And though, to-day, 
Carthage, city of the merchants, once the splendid 


THE FA VORED OF BAAL. 


43 


home of over seven hundred thousand busy and 
prosperous people, destroyed by the hatred and en- 
mity of Rome, is so complete a ruin that even the 



records of its greatness are but few and imperfect, 
the name and fame of Hannibal stand out clear 
and imperishable. 


44 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Even all the spitefulness and untruths of his 
Roman enemies and biographers cannot hide from 
the student of history his “courteous, mild, and 
chivalrous ” nature. And, notwithstanding his fear- 
ful oath of vengeance and the untiring energy of 
his life of battles, the boys of this nineteenth cen- 
tury of Christianity and progress can find much to 
admire and much to honor in the life-story of this 
greatest of all Carthaginians and one of the great- 
est of the world’s illustrious men — Hannibal, the 
relentless enemy of Rome, the curly-headed boy of 
ten, who in that splendid city of the long ago was 
hailed and honored as the Favored of Baal. 




III. 

THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS. 

{A Story of the Days of the Emperors.') 

[a.d. 292.] 

“ Thy right ; ho-ho! ” and the burly 
Dacian burst into a loud and scornful 
laugh. “ Thy right, indeed ! Why, 
boy, what right hath an hostage of 
the emperor ? Thou darst not even 
die without his word. What hope, 
then, hast thou to set thyself against 
me — against me, Galerius the Caesar, 
one crook of whose finger could do 
thee to death ? Ay, boy, could do 
thee to death, I say, ere ever so 
worthy a deed could come to the 
ears of that sallow-faced Caesar, thy father, who, 
men do say, is half Christian himself and there- 
fore doubly accursed.” 

The handsome face of the young lad against 
whom these bitter words were launched flushed 
angrily. 

“ Have a care, have a care, Galerius,” he cried. 



45 


46 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ For, big though thou art, and Caesar-elect though 
thou may’st be, thou shalt not say aught against 
Constantius, my father, while his son cloth live. 
Flavius Constantius doth outrank thee, proud one, 
and even though thou should’st call him sallow- 
faced,*”* he could give thee that in thy lying throat 
that could make thee turn sallow forever, never to 
show again thy must-colored nose and glutton- 
painted cheek.” 

The now thoroughly enraged Dacian soldier 
strode angrily forward and made one dash at the 
bold-tongued lad. But the young hostage darted 
nimbly to one side and clapped his hand to the 
hilt of the spatha, or short-handled sword that 
hung at his belt. Before, however, he could draw 
it in defence, a light touch fell upon his arm, and in 
between the angry disputants stepped a young girl. 
She laid a restraining hand upon the arm of each. 

“ Nay, nay, good Galerius,” she said ; “and nay, 
too, my Valerius ; let not thy heated and un- 
meaning words stir up foolish and bitter strife. 
Sure, Galerius did but joke, even as did’st thou, 
my Valerius ; but ’t were hardly safe, methinks, to 
thus bandy guard-room jokes in the audience-hall 
of him who is friend and father alike, even as he is 

* Constantius, the father of Constantine, was called, by his soldiers and 
by the Romans, Constantius Chlorus, or Constantius the Sallow-faced, from 
the natural paleness of his complexion, which was in marked contrast to the 
red or swarthy faces of his royal colleagues. 



47 



48 


CHIVALRTC DA YS. 


emperor and lord, to the brave Caesar Galerius and 
to the noble hostage, Constantine.” 

The young Constantine, whom the girl had called 
by his home name of Valerius, bent his shapely 
head in courteous acknowledgment of the merited 
reproof. But heavy-witted bodies are not so readily 
tamed as lighter ones, and the big Dacian, Galerius, 
grew even more angry at this linking of his name 
with that of young Constantine. 

“ How, now, Valeria,” he said, gruffly, “ dost 
thou couple the name of this puling boy, who has 
scarce yet doffed his chlamys for his toga, with that 
of Galerius, the Caesar and the soldier ? Stand 
aside, girl, and let me but lay hand uj^on him. 
He shall rue the day that he dared thus insult the 
conqueror of Illyria and the terror of the Persian. 
Stand aside, I say, I will give him what he doth 
richly deserve — not the soldier’s steel, but the 
school-boy’s rod.” 

And, rudely putting the Princess Valeria from 
his path, the angry Galerius crossed to where 
young Constantine stood calmly awaiting him. 
But ere the second encounter could lead to any re- 
sult, a loud voice rang through the great chamber. 

“ Way there ; way for our Master and our 
Lord ! ” 

It was the voice of Lucian, the Magister or 
grand chamberlain. Once again it rang through 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS . 


49 


the great hall. Then, officers and nobles pros- 
trated themselves upon the mosaic pavement 
or stood bent in respectful obeisence ; the 
pilum butts of the Illyrian guards rang upon the 
floor in sudden salute ; the heavy arrassed curtain 
was flung aside, and down the broad stairway and 
into the audience-hall of the imperial palace at 
Nicomedia came Valerius Aurelius Diocletian, 
Emperor of Rome. 

His robes of royal purple, heavy with rich bro- 
cade and boss, swept the floor as he walked ; his 
deep embroidered train was borne by four pages of 
the palace ; the imperial fillet of crusted gold 
gleamed in his crisp black hair ; and his hands, his 
arms, and his neck were encircled with bracelets 
and torques, sparkling with many gems. 

For the days of Roman simplicity in dress and 
customs had given place to show and state, and this 
Emperor of Rome, born a slave and raised to the 
throne by the force of circumstances and his own 
indomitable will, possessed a love of finery, cere- 
mony, and display that entered into every detail of 
his daily life. No man, however, can rise from 
the lowest to the highest round of fortune’s ladder 
without having both tact and determination, or 
without gaining much experience, good judgment, 
and common-sense. And all these qualities the 
Emperor Diocletian seems to have possessed. 


50 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


But the more power a man attains so much the 
greater burden of responsibility must he bear, and 
to this burden had Diocletian succeeded when, 
upon the death of the warlike Carus and of his 
unfortunate son Numerian, the Praetorian guards 
had lifted upon their shields the popular and en- 
ergetic Count of the Domestics,'"* Diodes the Dal- 
matian, and had hailed him as Diocletian, Augustus , 
Imperator. 

Into his shrewd and practical mind came the 
idea that so vast an empire as Rome furnished 
sufficient business in the way of governing to ad- 
mit of a division of responsibilities and a partner- 
ship of emperors. 

And first he took into his imperial concern as 
partner his old companion iii arms, the rough and 
ignorant but brave Pannonian soldier, Maximian, 
whom he declared as equally with himself Augus- 
tus and Emperor. But as the empire still proved 
too great a business investment, he soon after ad- 
mitted two more associate emperors, or junior 
partners, with the title of Caesars, Constantius the 
Illyrian and Galerius the Dacian. And so, by the 
wisdom of Diocletian, whom men called “ the Just,” 
the Roman empire, of which Rome was no longer 
the capital, was ruled over by four emperors, of 

* An officer of the Eastern empire equivalent to the Commander of the 
Imperial Body Guard. 



51 


52 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


whom not one was a Roman, and who established 
their capitals and their courts, far away from Rome, 
in the four cities of Nicomedia, Sirmium, Milan, and 
T reves. 

And, because in those old days no man dared 
trust his fellow-man without first receiving some 
sort of bond or guaranty, the emperor took into 
his palace as hostage, or pledge of good faith, from 
the Caesar Constantius, the sixteen-year-old Con- 
stantine his son. From Galerius, whose depart- 
ment adjoined his own, he required no hostage. 

The wise Diocletian, as he moved through the 
audience-hall to his seat of justice, a great gilded 
throne blazoned with the eagles of Rome, marked 
the angry looks on the faces of the two princes, 
and, as they stood, one on either hand, he said to 
them in that calm, judicial tone that always gave 
force and authority to his words : 

“ My sons, black looks do not become either the 
Caesar or the son of a Caesar. Tell me nothing of 
your differences but rather aid me by your smiles. 
The king’s face should ever bring grace to those on 
whose help he doth rely.” 

The stubborn Galerius, still brooding over his 
quarrel with Constantine, did not relish this second 
coupling of his name with that of the lad he disliked. 

“ And is it to be always Caesar ? ” he muttered, 
almost sulkily. 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS . 


53 


“ It is to be what I will, son Galerius,” said Dio- 
cletian, sternly. “ If it was my will that made thee 
Caesar, my will, too, can unmake thee. But this is 
folly. We waste words when more serious matters 
press.” And at once the busy monarch plunged 
into the business of the empire, and speedily forgot 
the troubles that were brewing between his col- 
league and his hostage. 

But neither of them forgot it ; and that very day 
was the war of words renewed. 

So lavish in his display was Diocletian the Em- 
peror, and so great was his desire to have his capi- 
tal city of Nicomedia outrival Rome, that he had 
built in that fair city on the Sea of Marmora (now 
almost lost in the ruins that encircle the miserable 
little Turkish town of Ismid), besides the temples 
and libraries, the baths and forum, the circus and 
the amphitheatre, a splendid palace, not only for his 
own imperial self, but one for his wife, the Em- 
press Prisca, and one also for the Princess Valeria, 
his daughter. 

The palace of the young princess was a gleaming 
marble building with courts and halls, gardens and 
porticos, and airy living-rooms that looked out 
upon the blue Sea of Marmora, and off toward 
the equally blue outlines of the distant Balkan 
mountains. In the broad and sculptured atrium 
of the palace sat the handsome young Constantine 


54 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


deep in thought. These two young people — Va- 
leria the princess and Constantine the hostage — 
were devoted friends, and the lad spent many 
happy hours in the palace of the princess. It 
was death for any man to penetrate beyond the 
atrium but that, at least, was free to the friends 
of Valeria, and there was Constantine often to be 
found. To-day, however, he was in a thoughtful 
mood. His was a nature formed for action and 
leadership, and, again and again, during his years 
of hostageship he had longed to be freed from 
this genteel servitude of an emperor’s palace, fight- 
ing against the barbarians in Gaul or Britain under 
his father’s standard, or himself leading the soldiers 
of the empire against a foreign foe. Every lad of 
spirit experiences this desire for freedom and action, 
never dreaming that by far the best “ school of the 
soldier ” is the manual of control over one’s own, 
and often rebellious, self. 

And as he sat thus, meditating, and playing, al- 
most mechanically, with the pet pigeons of the 
princess, into the atrium strode the Caesar Galerius. 

“ So, thou art here, malapert, are thou ? ” burst 
out the Dacian, as his eye fell upon the young 
Constantine. “And why, I pray? To mummer, 
as doth the princess, so ’t is said, before the cross 
of the Christians, or to mumble words, without 
gifts or altar, as do they ? Bah ! Had I but my 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS. 


55 


way here, cross and Christians should alike go to 
the fire and the rack for daring thus to brave the 
immortal gods. And thou and thy renegade father 

should’st go 
with them.” 
“Galerius,” 
said Con- 
stantine, 
firm of voice, 
but flushed 
of face, 
“ thrice now 
this day hast 
thou sought 
to quarrel 



HE SAT IN THE ATRIUM PLAYING WITH THE PET PIGEONS OF THE PRINCESS. 


with me. Thou knowest that I may not honor- 
ably jeopardize my father’s loyalty and station by 
here entering into conflict with thee. But were it 
not for this, I do declare to thee, by Hercules 


5 6 CHIVALKIC DA YS. 

and by Jove, that, boy though thou dost deem 
me, yet would I not brook for one moment thy 
slanderous speeches and thy lying tongue.” 

“If! If! Ay, always if” cried Galerius, scorn- 
fully. “ ‘ If ’’ is a boy’s weapon, and doth but beat 
the air full harmlessly. This morning I did tell 
thee I would correct thy manners with the school- 
boy’s rod. Galerius never eats his words. Come 
hither, boy ! ” And, as if in sheer desire to display 
his brutal strength, the big Dacian wrenched a 
gilded rung from the nearest chair and flourished 
it angrily toward the boy. 

Constantine never flinched, but with his lips 
more firmly set, he drew his spat ha from his sword- 
belt, and with the words : “ Ah, but this passeth all 
patience,” he would have sprung straight at Gale- 
rius’ throat. But once again the same fair peace- 
maker interfered. 

“Nay, princes and brothers both,” cried Valeria, 
bravely stepping in between their lifted weapons, 
“ this were scarce seemly or courteous in a lady’s 
atrium. Besides the law of this, my house, is the 
noble sentence that the good presbyter Anthimus 
did read me from his scroll this day : Love your 
enemies, bless them that hate you, and pray for 
them that despitefully use and persecute you.” 

“Ho; a coward’s rule that, my Valeria,” said 
Galerius, contemptuously, and even the courtly 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS . 


57 


Constantine looked dubious over such a seemingly 
ridiculous precept. 

“ Nay, he is the coward that dareth not to for- 
give,” said the princess, grandly ; “ for, so it seem- 
eth to me, it doth call for more of courage to love 
your enemies than to do battle with them, as 
indeed it doth to follow the way that the wise An- 
thimus did also read to me from his precious scroll : 
If thine enemy hunger, feed him ; if he thirst, give 
him drink.” 

“Ay; a feast of iron and a drink of blood ! That 
were the only food for foes,” said the savage Dacian. 
And then he added : “ Bah, girl ! this craven counsel 
cometh from naught save these curs of Christians, 
who would discrown all valor and wreck the altars 
of the gods. Would that I but had the dealing 
with them ! ” 

“ Nay, but I have heard of Christians who did 
not make scorn of valor,” said young Constantine. 
“Was not the 'Thundering Legion’ of the great 
Marcus made of these same Christians ? And, 
indeed, my. father hath told me that in the days of 
Alexander Severus and of Philip the Arabian — ” 

“ Thy father, indeed ! ” broke in the Caesar 
Galerius, to whom any reference to his rival Caesar 
was even as is a red rag in the face of a bull, “ thy 
father, indeed ! doth he dare — ” 

“ Dare ! ” echoed the young Constantine, roused 


58 


CHI V AIR I C DA YS. 


in his turn, “ he dareth more than thou, Galerius. 
And he hath proved it, too, on Gaul and Briton, as 
thou well doth know.” 

“ ’T is not what the good Constantius dareth, 
my brothers,” came the pleading voice of Valeria, 
anxious to avert a new quarrel ; “ ’t is what ye do 
dare.” And then, as a distant trumpet peal came 
to their ears, she cried joyfully, recognizing in it a 
possible means of staying this tide of bitterness : 
“But hark ! there soundeth the cedile s trumpet. Let 
us to the circus and see what men may dare in the 
arena.” 

Both her guests readily assented, and soon, with 
the princess and her throng of attendants, the two 
hot-heads were on their way to the great amphi- 
theatre of Nicomedia. 

It was a splendid open-air circus. Tier upon 
tier rose the encircling seats, thronged with the 
pleasure-seekers who in those brutal days liked to 
take their pleasures cruelly. Only the Christians, 
schooled to a horror and distaste of such debasing 
sport, consistently stayed away from these public 
slaughters of beasts and of men, and thereby in- 
curred the hatred and contempt of pagan Rome. 

Beneath a brilliantly colored awning, to shield 
her from the sun, sat the Princess Valeria, and at 
either hand, in her suggestion, or state-box, sat her 
two guests, Galerius and Constantine. 



THE WISE ANTHIMUS 


AND HIS SCROLL. 


59 



6o 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


The pompa, or opening procession, with its gor- 
geous display and spectacle, was over as they en- 
tered the podium , or reserved section of the circus, 
and the agile and muscular wrestlers were already 
hard at work in trip and tussle. The rope-dances 
and the foot-races speedily followed, and the 
sprightly Valeria greatly enjoyed watching the 
trained elephant walk the tight-rope. But both 
Constantine and Galerius thought this mere trifling, 
and were anxious for the chariot races and the 
wild-beast fight. 

The races proved long and exciting. Green and 
blue, gold and orange (the colors of the fluttering 
ribbons worn by the chariot-drivers), struggled for 
the lead, and when the green won in a close neck- 
and-neck with the blue, the great enclosure rang- 
with the conflicting shouts of the multitude. But 
as the army of “supernumeraries ” made the arena 
ready for the next performance — the wild-beast 
fight, — Galerius was grumbling and sulky, for he 
had wagered high with Constantine upon the races, 
and the green had won when he had backed the 
blue. Besides, the gladiators were not to fight to- 
day, and Galerius, who enjoyed a sport only as it 
increased in brutality, voted the day’s programme a 
bore. 

“Of what use is it,” he grumbled, “to pit bull 
against lion, or dogs against bear ? They will fight 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS. 


6l 


only for their stupid lives. Why did not the editor 
give us the gladiators, or at least throw in a few 
Christians to the lions as they did in Valerian’s 
day ? ” 

The Princess Valeria resented this cruel wish. 
So much time had passed since a season of per- 
secution against the growing sect of Christians 
that the Church was fast becoming strong and 
influential, and many of the most trusted officers of 
Diocletian the Emperor were known to be of this 
sect. In fact, it was openly reported that both 
Valeria the princess, and the empress Prisca, her 
mother, were secret worshippers at the Christian 
altars. 

“ Nay, nay, Galerius,” said the princess, “ ’t were 
far better to face brute with brute than thus to 
waste a human life.” 

“Even so, Valeria,” said young Constantine, 
gravely. “It doth seem wisest to fight brute with 
brute rather than to jeopard the life of a man 
against that which hath neither soul nor sense. 
’T were braver, I should say, for a man to face a 
lion in defence of something other than his own 
life — mayhap a maid, mayhap a martyr, — for then, 
indeed, he doth risk his life for a noble end.” 

Valeria smiled approval as she heard her senti- 
ments thus echoed by this brave lad. 

“ ’T is even as Anthimus did read to me,” she 


62 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


said. “ ‘ Greater love hath no man than this — that 
a man lay down his life for his friends.’ See,” 
she added, “ here is my jewelled armlet which the 
emperor did give me. I prize it highly. Yet 
would I freely yield it up as gage of honor or 
trophy for victory to him who, as you do say, my 
Constantine, would, for its winning, face death in 
defence of maid or martyr, or for one who suffered 
wrong.” 

Just then with almost noiseless mechanism the 
iron grating opposite the royal box rolled aside, 
and, with a roar of mingled rage and defiance, a 
great African lion dashed into the arena. The 
tawny monster stood for an instant lashing his 
sides with his tufted tail, and steadfastly regarding 
the throng before him. 

“ Ah,” said Valeria, “what a splendid beast! 
See, my Constantine, ’t is the one that Marcian the 
editor did tell us of. He hath but just received 
him from Alexandria. He is to be matched in 
fight against the big black bull of Spain and the 
great unicornis * from the East.” 

“ Bah ! ” why not against a man ! ” cried Galerius. 
“That were grander sport. Holo then ; here is a 
chance for thy boasted valor, boy. Now prove 
thy Christian cant.” And with a quick move he 

* The Indian rhinoceros, supposed to be the original of the fabled uni- 


corn. 



(3~ “ CONSTANTINE LEAPED INTO THE ARENA. 

(From a painting by E. Blair Leighton.) 


: >c£j 


64 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


tore the armlet from Valeria’s hand. “If that 
thou, who dost prate so loudly of facing the beasts 
for the saving of maid or martyr, doth not only fill 
the air with words, go down and face yon lion, if 
thou dareth, for something worthier than maid or 
martyr — the gage of thy princess ! ” And with the 
sneer of taunting unbelief in voice and face, the 
burly Caesar flung down the armlet of the princess 
upon the sands of the arena. 

Valeria gave a sob of despair. “ O my precious 
armlet ! ” she cried, “ Galerius, how dare Con- 

stantine, why did’st thou let him ?” 

The young Constantine said nothing. He mere- 
ly cast one look of scorn upon the taunting Galerius, 
and the next instant had leaped down into the arena. 

A mingled shout of amazement, horror, and de- 
spair rang through the crowded circus, for the son 
of the Caesar Constantius was a prime favorite with 
the people of Nicomedia, and none could tell why 
he leaped thus into the arena. The iron gratings 
which were just parting to release the lion’s foes 
closed again with sudden clang, and like its echo 
rose the roar of the angry brute. He saw his prey 
and with a bound sprang toward him. 

Constantine’s wary eye marked the spring of the 
lion and the position of the coveted armlet. He 
grasped his trusty spatha firmly and measured the 
distance with his eye. Then he shifted his ground 


THE GAGE OF A PRINCESS. 


65 


and drew a step nearer to the gage. Poor Valeria, 
who had sat spell-bound as she comprehended 
Constantine’s great danger, now sprang to her 
feet, and, as if she could not bear to see her 
friend struck down before her eyes, she passed 
swiftly from the royal box, and, with pale and 
anxious face, leaned against the column for sup- 
port, her back turned to the broad arena. Galerius, 
amazed, yet moved by the unexpected bravery of 
this son of his rival Caesar, leaned far over his box 
and breathlessly watched every movement of the 
lad. 

Again the lion sprang. But Constantine had not 
been trained in the royal gymnasium without gain- 
ing quickness of movement and firmness of step. 
At just the right moment he leaped aside. The 
short blade of his spatha gleamed aloft ; down 
it came with swift, unerring aim, and with sudden 
thrust — once, twice, thrice, even before the lion 
could crouch for another spring, the light blade 
was buried to the hilt in the heart and throat of 
the beast. 

Then, as the lad, spurning his fallen foe with his 
foot, leaped across the prostrate carcass and picked 
up the gage of the princess, so great a shout rang 
through the arena that the guards at the outer gate 
heard and took it up, and the happy Valeria, assured 
now of the safety of her friend, came swiftly back 


66 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


to the royal box and received her gage of honor 
from the valorous boy. 

And Galerius said : “ Now, by the shield of Mars, 
but that was bravely done ! I did not think thou 
had’st so much of spirit, boy.” 

“ I have but what my father did give to me, 
Galerius,” said young Constantine, proudly, “ and 
that would never see a fellow-man sent to the 
beasts or death save for a crime committed or an 
evil done. Constantius Chlorus hath a kindly 
heart — even though he be a Caesar.” 

“ Tush, tush, boy,” said Galerius, gruffly. “ Thou 
art but a fool with thy boyish pratings and thy boy- 
ish haste. Galerius Caesar yet will find a way to 
check thy boyish strivings and thy stubborn will, 
even though thy father be a Caesar and thou an 
hostage of the emperor. Galerius Caesar neither 
forgives nor forgets.” 

And, in* truth, history does but record the keep- 
ing of the Dacian’s hostile pledge. For, through 
all the years and until, by his own stout heart and 
ready brain, the young Constantine upon his father’s 
death escaped from the palace and the enmity of his 
ferocious rival, the lad’s life was full of the petty 
and persistent persecutions with which Galerius 
Caesar pursued him, and which not even the friend- 
ship of the Emperor Diocletian could prevent. 

For Diocletian the Emperor as he grew in years 


I 









68 


CH1VALRIC DA YS. 


lost the manliness that had made his earlier days 
full of strength and justice. In the year 304 he 
gave up his office as Emperor of Rome, and 
passed his life as a country gentleman raising 
cabbages on an Austrian farm. But before he 
thus resigned the imperial power into the hands 
of Galerius, he gave his consent to an edict that 
has covered his name with infamy and shame — the 
last persecution of the Christians, in the year 303. 

The horror of all this, however, is to be laid to 
the influence of Galerius Caesar, who, hating the 
Christians for their gentler manners and their no- 
bler ways, planned, advocated, and pushed forward 
their terrible persecution with all the strength of a 
vindictive and brutal nature. 

And when the day of trial came, the Princess 
Valeria could not stand the test. When the order 
was issued that, in all the palaces, every person 
must sacrifice to the gods of Rome, she found 
herself unable to live in loyalty to her new faith, 
and while others died for it without fear or flinch- 
ing, she lost alike the martyrs glory and the 
martyr’s crown. 

But then, poor girl, she had at that time become 
the wife of Galerius Caesar, and that was perhaps 
martyrdom enough. And though she was Empress 
of Rome and the friend of Constantine, her name 
is remembered in history only as that of a sad and 







CONSTANTINE. 


69 


; o 


CH1VALRIC DA YS. 


unfortunate woman, whose last years were shad- 
owed by a bitter persecution and closed by a tragic 
death. Indeed, as Gibbon, the historian, declares, 
her “ melancholy adventures might furnish a very 
singular subject for a tragedy.” 

But into this sad recital our story cannot go. It 
seeks to give us but one glimpse at the young 
Roman life of that distant day. It cannot, there- 
fore, tell of the horrible end of the brutal Emperor 
Galerius, nor of the victorious progress of the 
brave young Constantine, who, declared emperor 
at thirty-two, had at thirty-five a wonderful vision 
of a flaming cross and a gleaming message, and 
became at last sole master of the Roman world 
and the first Christian emperor. 

And, though there is much to censure and much 
to applaud in the life-story of this wonderful man, 
not all the success, the glory, or the fame of Con- 
stantine the Great can give us more of pleasure 
than this story of his younger days, when, in the 
crowded circus at Nicomedia he proved at once 
his courtesy, his chivalry, and his courage by rescu- 
ing from beneath the very jaws of the African lion 
the Princess Valeria’s gage. 



IV. 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


(A Story of the Frankish Kings.') 

[a.d. 750.] 

Very many years ago there lived in 
that part of Northeastern France 
known as the Laonnais, but now 
to be found on your maps of 
modern France as the Department 
of Aisne, a certain nobleman, 
whom men called the Graf, or 
Count, Charibert, Lord of Laon. 

His great castle stood boldly 
outlined against the clear French 
sky on the crest of the lonely 
little hill along whose slopes now 
rise the roofs and spires of modern 
Laon. From parapet and bartizan 
the warder, pacing to and fro, could look far across 
the northern plain to the slowly widening Scheldt, 
and west and south to the forests of St. Gobain and 
the wooded hills of ancient Soissons. 



71 


72 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


The stout old castle had witnessed many a 
bloody foray and many a stubborn siege. For that 
lonely hill of Laon has been through generations 
the battle-ground of Gaul and Roman, Vandal 
and Hun, Frank and Burgundian, Frenchman and 
Englishman. The blessed Saint Remi, who had 
baptized the warlike Clovis, first of the Christian 
kings of France, had played as a boy beneath the 
shadow of Laon’s castle walls, and the grim for- 
tress was esteemed one of the strongest outposts 
of the Merovingian kings. 

In those days France was all German. Indeed, 
France and Germany had, through two centuries, 
formed the great kingdom of the Franks, which 
King Clovis had conquered and ruled. But dis- 
cord and dissension among his sons had divided 
this splendid heritage, and now the eastern and 
western sections, known respectively as Austrasia 
or the eastern kingdom, and Neustrasia, or the 
new lands, were at deadly feud with each other. 
And so it came to pass that the stout castle of 
Laon was the eastern defence of Neustrasia, or 
Neustria, as it was commonly called, against the 
inroads and forays of the hostile barons of the 
eastern kingdom. 

And almost as stout a human outpost was the 
Lord of Laon in the year 750. Stern and warlike, 
almost brutal, according to the manner of his day, 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT . 


7 3 


the Count Charibert was feared alike by vassal and 
by foe. He owned no overlord but his liege, the 
king, and he seemed to love but two things in 
life — his honor as Lord of Laon and his fair- 
haired daughter, the beautiful Lady Bertha. 

The Lady Bertha, so the records assure us, was 
both beautiful and good. She had, however, two 
things to trouble her — though these, I am certain, 
were not esteemed such crosses by the girls of the 
Lady Bertha’s time as they would be by the girls 
of our more fastidious day : she was a very tall girl 
— so tall, indeed, that some of the old records de- 
clare her to have been a giantess, — and she had one 
foot which was larger and longer than the other. It 
is this last deformity, in fact, if such it can be called, 
that has given to the Lady Bertha the name by 
which, for more than eleven centuries, she has been 
known in history and romance — Bertha au grand 
pied — Bertha with the Big Foot. 

But, notwithstanding her height — which was 
probably not really gigantic, — and despite her big 
foot — which, doubtless, was not so very monstrous, 
— the fair face and gentle manners of the Lady 
Bertha made her beloved by all the vassals of her 
father, the Count Charibert, and renowned for 
many a mile beyond the walls of Laon. 

The Lady Bertha was a very busy young woman, 
as were all the girls of her day. Her duties were 


74 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


many and laborious, for not even a count’s daugh- 
ter could play the grand lady. Power has its re- 
sponsibilities, as the Lady Bertha could have told 
you, and one bright summer morning found her es- 
pecially busy. The baking and brewing, the spin- 
ning and the burnishing which needed all to be 
superintended either by her mother, the Countess 
Blanche, or herself, had filled up all her morning 
hours, and now, as she sat with her cousin, Aliste, 
and the other girls of noble birth who found a 
home in the castle of the Count Charibert, she was 
so occupied with embroidery and missal that she 
even failed to hear the sound of the trumpet that 
sounded at the great gate , t or to mark the stir and 
bustle that came from the courtyard near to the 
bench where the maidens were sitting. 

But the other girls heard it, and missal and em- 
broidery failed to have further interest for them. 
They sprang from their bench and clustered around 
the open window. Then the Lady Bertha, too, 
grew interested. 

“ What is astir, cousin ? ” she asked of Aliste. 

“ Truly, a messenger from the kings court, I 
think,” replied the girl, “and not on warlike mat- 
ters, surely, for he is trapped out so bravely that it 
doth seem as though he cometh more as a wedding- 
guest than as a war-man.” 

“ A wedding-guest indeed ! ” laughed Bertha, 



SHE WAS SO OCCUPIED WITH EMBROIDERY AND MISSAL. 








76 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


merrily, “ then must he be thine, girl, for sure 
none other of us looks for such a cavalier.” 

“ Nay, he is none of mine, lady,” protested 
Aliste, still peering from the window. “ ’T is liker 
to be thine, say I. So ; now hath he gone within, 
with my lord count bowing before him. Our lord 

would not thus bend did he not deem him ” 

But here the voice of the Count Charibert him- 
self cut off further speculation. 

“ Holo ! soho!” he cried, loudly, “ Margiste ! 
Aliste ! Summon the Lady Bertha ! ” 

“See, now; what said I, cousin?” said Aliste, 
gayly ; “ ’t is thee the messenger doth seek.” 

So, dutifully, as was her wont, though now 
herself somewhat curious, the Lady Bertha de- 
scended the stairs that led to the audience-hall. 
There stood the Count Charibert, there the highest 
vassal-lords of his seignory, and there, too, the 
royal messenger, gorgeous in the half barbaric, 
half Roman dress that made up the state costume 
of the Frankish court. 

“ Soho, my lady-bird, thou art come,” said the 
Count, advancing to meet her. “ Here standeth 
the Graf Guntrum of Soissons, messenger from the 
court, asking thy hand in marriage for his lord and 
mine — the noble Mayor Pepin, lord of the palace 
of the king. What say’st thou, in reply, my 
Bertha ? ” 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


77 


The Lady Bertha was too well schooled in the 
ways of her time to answer other than she did. 

“It shall be even as thou dost say, my father,” 
was all she said. 

“ Then, thus it is,” said the Count Charibert, 
turning to the royal envoy. “ The Mayor Pepin 
shall have my daughter, Bertha, to wife, and she 
shall go attended to his court ere yet another moon 
be at its full. Now rest thee, my lord count, while 
thou and I do agree upon the sponsalia and the 
morgengabe” * And then, with mingled feast and 
business-talk, was the betrothal completed. 

And so it came to pass that within three weeks 
from the day of the Count Guntrum’s visit, the 
Lady Bertha, escorted by her uncle, the Obgraf 
(or Viscount) Tybers, and fifty spearmen of her 
father’s train, and attended by her aunt Margiste, 
her cousin Aliste, and a dozen ladies and serving- 
women, was riding from the castle of Laon to dis- 
tant Paris to become the bride of the foremost man 
in the kingdom, and one whom she had never seen 
— the Lord Pepin, mayor of the palace of the king. 

At the date of our story the Merovingian kings 
of France, descendants of the great Clovis though 
they were, had become weak and purposeless mon- 
archs — rois faineans, lazy kings, they were called. 

* The sponsalia and morgengabe were the dowry or marriage settlements 
which the bridegroom agreed to give both before and after the wedding 
ceremony. 


78 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Kings only in name, both their power and au- 
thority were usurped and wielded by the chief 
officer of the realm, whose puppets and creatures 
they were, the major domus, or mayor of the pal- 
ace. And in the year 750 the major domus of King 
Childeric III., — Pepin, the son of Carl, the son of 
Pepin Heristal, — was, in everything but the royal 
title, king of France. 

This mayor of the palace was just the reverse of 
Bertha of Laon. For he was so small of stature as 
to be nicknamed “ Shorty ” ; and that he was not 
fair of face his picture on the opposite page will 
convince you. And yet this man, known as Pepin 
le brej \ or Pepin the Short, was both brave and 
wise. He was harsh and rough in manner, of 
course ; all the world was harsh and rough and 
brutal in his day. But he was just and far-seeing, 
sturdy and valiant as became the son of one of the 
heroes of the Middle Ages — that defender of Chris- 
tendom whose terrible battle-blows against the in- 
vading Moslems in the battle of Poitiers had given 
him the name of Carl Martel, or Charles the 
Hammer. 

There are always in this world people who 
are jealous, envious, and designing. They can 
not bear to witness the good-fortune of others or 
see those whom they know faring better than them- 
selves. They lose no opportunity to over-reach and 



PEPIN ’J HE SHORT, 

Major of the Palace and afterward 
King of France. 

(From an old French print.) 


79 



8o 


CHJVALR/C DA YS. 


get the better of their rivals or their acquaintances, 
or to work as much harm as possible against those 
who are the objects of their envy. This, if we 
read history aright, seems to have been an even 
more prominent feature in olden times than it is 
to-day. For the civilizing and softening power of 
an advancing Christianity let us all be thankful. 
When might makes right, might and malice become 
identical. It was this very combination of mali- 
cious envy and of temporary power that worked ill 
to the Lady Bertha. 

Tybers the Obgraf, or assistant count, was en- 
vious of the rank and power of his brother, the 
Count Charibert ; the Lady Margiste, his wife, 
was envious of the splendid marriage which had 
been arranged for her niece, the daughter of her 
overlord ; Aliste, the daughter of the obgraf, was 
envious of Bertha because, while this pink and 
white cousin of hers was to become the first lady 
of the land, she herself — a much more beautiful 
girl, so she firmly believed, — was to remain only 
a vassal-companion and tiring-woman. 

So these three envious ones began forthwith to 
plot against the very maiden whom they had prom- 
ised their lord the count to escort safely to her new 
home. No sooner had they left Laon’s gates than 
Aliste, at the instigation of her mother, commenced 
her part of the programme. 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


“ Verily, my lady cousin,” she said, while a deep 
sigh, as of sympathy, accompanied her words. 
“Verily, now, I would that we were riding else- 
where than to the lord mayor’s palace at Paris.” 

“ And why, Aliste ? ” her cousin inquired. 

“ Oh — ask me not,” replied the girl, with ap- 
parent reluctance ; “ or, indeed, if thou must know, 
thou art much too fair and good to be sacrificed 
to so grim an ogre as this same lord mayor, the 
dwarf Pepin.” 

“ Ogre and dwarf ! what means this, girl ? ” cried 
Bertha, turning upon her cousin a look of surprise 
and inquiry. But Aliste, trained to her work of de- 
ception, met her cousin’s gaze with a well-counter- 
feited look of horror and of sadness, and proceeded 
gradually — as if half afraid to speak and yet anxious 
for her cousin’s happiness — to tell her story. 

Bertha’s uncle, the Obgraf Tybers, so Aliste de- 
clared, out of love and affection for the Lady 
Bertha, his niece, and because he had long had 
suspicion of the truth, had made special inquiry 
by spies and bribing, into the character and home- 
life of the lord mayor, Pepin. And the good 
Tybers was horrified at what he had thus discov- 
ered. 

The lord mayor, he declared, was a greater mon- 
ster than ever the Lady Bertha’s old nurse Begga 
had told of in fairy tales, or the wise priest Ratgar 


82 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


had learned from pagan lore. He had already had 
five wives, two of whom he had smothered, two 
beheaded, and one drowned in boiling oil. He 
was in fact, according to Aliste’s telling, a real, 
living Bluebeard, who married his sweet young 
wives only to murder them, and who would surely 
do the same to Bertha, should she displease or 
anger him. Not even the power of her father, the 
Count Charibert, so Aliste declared, could protect 
or avenge his daughter, for, as was well known, the 
law of the land protected the king against his 
seigniors and barons, whatever he might say or do ; 
and though the Lord Pepin was not king in name, 
all men did know that he was mightier than the 
king, for he himself both made and executed the 
law of the land. 

All this and much more did the wily Aliste com- 
municate to the horrified Lady Bertha — not all at 
once, but little by little, playing upon her fears and 
adding new horrors as she proceeded. And at last 
the poor girl, whose life had known only love at 
home— although her father was often stern and 
harsh, — became greatly disturbed and terrified at 
the prospect before her, and feared the unknown 
fate that was in store for her when once she had 
become the bride of this savage ogre, dwarf and 
monster, Pepin le bref. 

She turned for help and consolation, first to her 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


83 


aunt Margiste and then to her uncle, the Obgraf 
Tybers. But from neither of them could she obtain 
reassurance or comfort. And at last came the 
direct question : “ O, my uncle, can you not save 
me from this dreadful fate ? ” 

At first the cautious Tybers had nothing to sug- 
gest. He really could not advise. His brother, 
the count, had not listened to his entreaties, and 
should he now help his niece to escape, he would 
be accounted a traitor to his seignior and overlord. 
At last, as if by a happy thought, Margiste, the 
wife of the obgraf, said : 

“ Our comfort, dear niece, as are our lives also, is 
thine. Where danger doth threaten thee, ’t is for 
us to shield thee from it even if we die in so doing. 
See now, I have a plan. Here is Aliste ; she is my 
daughter and my pride ; and yet for thy safety 
would we hazard her own. Let then Aliste, my 
daughter, be for but a few days the Lady Bertha ; 
be thou the vassal-lady Aliste, to serve and attend 
her. The Lord Pepin shall receive her as Bertha, 
his bride — and, if she dieth, she dieth ! Only this : 
thine uncle Tybers shall bear instant tidings to 
thy father, the count, if Aliste doth die. If not, 
then in ten days’ time shall the Lord Pepin have 
knowledge of the change, all the blame of which 
will we take unto us, and, when he shall see thee, 
thy beauty and high-born ways shall reconcile him 


/ 


8 4 


CH I VALRIC DA VS. 


to thee and then shalt thou be, in deed and in truth, 
the Lord Pepin’s noble bride.” 

It was a bold scheme, shrewdly devised ; and 
had but the Lady Bertha been, herself, less truth- 
ful and trusting, she would have seen through the 
deception. But she believed so firmly in the love 
and loyalty of her kinsfolk that she listened, pon- 
dered, and finally, as her only safety, accepted 
the plan which her aunt proposed. Then she 
kissed and wept over her dear cousin Aliste, who 
would thus willingly risk life and peace of mind for 
her sake, and so far the plot proved successful. 

Ere the cavalcade reached the gates of old Paris 
the change had been made. Aliste dressed in the 
rich bridal robes of the Lady Bertha, rode in the 
place of honor in the ox-drawn litter, while at her 
feet, as waiting-maiden and tire-woman sat the real 
bride, the disguised Bertha. 

The palace of the kings of France was the same 
as that built by the old Roman governors — a 
splendid building on the left bank of the Seine, the 
remains of which may still be seen in Julian’s Baths 
near to the modern Hotel de Cluny. Within and 
around it torches flared and blazed, and the notes 
of barbaric music floated through its open doors as 
the major domus of King Childeric III., the power- 
ful lord of the palace, Pepin le bref, received and 
honored his supposed bride. 


/ 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT . 


35 


The records do not state whether or not he was 
charmed with the face and manners of Aliste, 
whose dark hair and black eyes and low, contracted 
brows were of a far different type of beauty from 
that of her cousin, the lovely, golden-haired Bertha. 
Probably, as the marriages of great folks in those 
far-off days were matters of state-craft and policy 
rather than of affection, the lord mayor thought 
Tut little of the appearance of his bride, only con- 
gratulating himself that this alliance to so power- 
ful a seignior as the count of Laon would strengthen 
liis position and help forward his assumption of the 
royal title — an action upon which he had now 
•determined. 

Bertha, the hand-maid, had been purposely kept 
in the background during all the pageant and cere- 
mony in which she should have held so prominent 
a place. “ Wait but ten days, my niece,” said the 
wily Tybers the Obgraf, “and we shall see thee in 
thy rightful place. The lord mayor is crafty and 
full of guile. Be thou on thy guard and let him 
:see thee not, and this very night will Morent, my 
litus * bear thee to a place of safety, there to bide 
until thy time of peril is past,” 

Bertha could see nothing either crafty or cruel 
in the Lord Pepin’s looks, and he was not by any 

* A sort of vassal-freedman ; like the “clients” of old Rome they were 
bound to -do vwork and service for their lord when so ordered. 


86 


CH1VALRIC DA YS. 


means the dwarf in stature that she had expected 
to find. But she supposed that, of course, her 
good uncle knew better than did she what was 
wisest for her, and so she said nothing. 

More than a hundred miles to the southwest of 
Paris in that section of France watered by the. 
rivers Sarthe and Loire, there stretched, centuries 
ago, the vast forest of Mans. Within this forest 
were numbers of huts, in which lived the liberti , 
or free foresters, who had in charge the hunting- 
grounds of their king. Almost in the heart of 
the forest of Mans stood the cottage and cleared 
land of the liber tus Simon. One night as Simon 
and Hilda his wife sat in their cabin, shaping bows 
and weaving baskets, they heard a strange sound 
at their door. Simon the forester and Hilda his wife 
were not troubled with many neighbors in that deep 
forest — unless the wolf and the boar, the bear and the 
fox could be counted as such. This sound, as of 
some one at the door, therefore, quite startled them, 
and catching up a brand from the hearth, Simon 
fanned it into a flame and strode toward the door. 

He opened the door cautiously, for in those days 
one needed to be prepared to face foe as well as 
friend. But ere. the door was fully opened he 
uttered a cry of surprise, as he saw at his feet, 
fallen prone across his threshold, the fainting form 
of a tall, fair-haired, and pale-faced young girl. 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


87 


“ Who art thou ? What want ye ? ” he cried, and 
“ What want ye ? ” echoed his equally startled wife. 
But the girl answered not a word. She lay there 
so still and white that at last the good wife Hilda, 
recovering from her surprise and full of pity for 
the outcast, lifted the girl in her strong arms and 
laid her upon the bed. And then, when strength 
and life came back, the girl told her story. 

Of course, she was Bertha, and, of course, she 
had now learned all the treachery and cruelty of 
her false-hearted uncle, the Obgraf Tybers. Fol- 
lowing out the cruel commands of his master, the 
litus Morent had taken her farther and farther 
away from the gates of Paris, and led her deeper 
and deeper into the wild forest. Then at the last 
repenting of the promise he had made, to put so 
fair and unfortunate a maiden to death, he had 
simply given her her life — deserting her in an 
almost trackless forest. 

For days Bertha wandered aimlessly through the 
forest, until spent with hunger and weariness she 
was about to give up the struggle for life, when 
she had caught through the trees the gleam of 
the firelight in the foresters cabin. Dragging 
herself to the hut she had expended her little 
remaining strength in fruitless attempts to knock 
upon the door, and had fallen fainting across the 
threshold. 


88 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


All this she told the good forester and his wife, 
but withheld from them her real name and station, 
fearing lest she might be returned to that deadly 
palace, where her treacherous cousin ruled in her 
stead as the bride of the Lord Pepin. 

But, when Hilda had nursed her back to health 
and strength, Bertha begged to be allowed to stay 
with her and be her hand-maiden. And Hilda, who 
had learned to love this fair-faced girl who had 
escaped some bitter peril, willingly assented ; and 
so it came to pass that the lord mayor’s bride be- 
came a servant in the forester’s cabin. 

Meanwhile, in the castle of the Lord of Laon, the 
Countess Blanche sorrowed because of her loneli- 
ness, now that her dearly-loved daughter had left 
her side, and longed to visit the “ lady mayoress.” 

At last, the Count Charibert bade her make 
ready and go to the court of the lord mayor, 
there to convince herself of their Bertha’s high 
estate and happiness. 

“ Thou art a foolish woman,” said the lord count, 
“ and wilt have thy labor for thy pains ; our daugh- 
ter Bertha is too full of power and princely cares 
to give thee over-much of time or welcome. But 
go thy way and bring me back report of the gilded 
caging of my lady-bird.” 

At once the countess set out for Paris, duly and 
honorably escorted as became the Lady of Laon. 


TIIE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


89 


As she drew near to the old town she sent 
forward her outriders and herald to announce her 
coming to the lord mayor, and, as she followed 
leisurely, thought to gratify her motherly pride by 
learning from the people of their love and affection 
for her beautiful daughter. 

But to her astonishment she heard only com- 
plaints and revilings. The Lady Bertha was a 
fiend, a monster, a tyrant, a stria — this last de- 
clared with bated breath ; for, by the Salic law, to 
call a woman a stria or witch rendered one liable to 
a fine of one hundred and eighty-seven sols, or very 
nearly as much as the murderer’s penalty of five 
golden dollars. The Lady Bertha, so the people 
said, had worked them ill in every possible way 
that a tyrant could. 

“ Nay, nay,” exclaimed the astonished mother, 
“ that can never be. Why, my Bertha is gentle, 
and kind and good, full of charity, and without 
thought of working ill to any one. Ye are the 
wicked ones who seek to do her grievous 
wrong.” 

At last the walls of Paris came in sight, and a 
deputation from the palace, came out to greet the 
mother of their lord mayor’s wife. Within the pal- 
ace audience-hall .the Lord Pepin himself received 
her, with stately though half barbaric welcome. 

“ But ah, my mother,” he said, “ the Lady Ber- 


9 o 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


tha is ill ; unable, she sayeth, to bear the joy and 
tremor of thy welcome visit. She bids me give 
thee due courtesy and honor, but to let my pres- 
ence stand for hers.” 

Here was a new surprise for the lady mother. 

“ How, my lord and son,” she said in amazement, 
“ my daughter will not see me ? Why, what new 
freak is this. She, who was always ready to tell 
her mother all her woes and wishes, now, you say, 
will not look upon my face? Nay, here is some 
mystery, I fear. I will see my child.” 

And sweeping past the Lord Pepin, who seemed 
both sorrowful and surprised, she made her way to 
her daughter’s apartments. 

Through the arrassed entrance she caught the 
sound of harsh and impatient words. The voice of 
an angry young woman is never a pleasant thing to 
hear, and petulance and threats from one who has 
always been gentle and loving and tender are sad 
indeed. And the voice too sounded far different 
from her daughter’s. 

“ What do I hear,” said the Countess Blanche, 
pausing in the door-way, “ surely not my Bertha’s 
voice. Bertha, ’t is I, thy mother, child ; do not 

thus receive me; do not- ’’and then the sad- 

hearted mother stopped, too amazed for speech ; 
for even the face of her daughter was turned away 
from her and hidden beneath the draperies of the 






tmth 


BERTHA. 


91 
















9 2 


CIIIVALRIC DA VS. 


bed. But the draperies, hastily drawn over the 
head of the supposed invalid, had incautiously left 
the feet uncovered. 

The Countess Blanche gave them a quick glance. 
“ Ah,” she cried, “ who is this ? These are not my 
daughter’s feet,” and with a sudden twitch she 
threw the draperies of the couch aside and looked 
into the frightened yet angry face of her niece, 
Aliste. 

“Aliste! thou !” she exclaimed. “Then where 
is Bertha ? What have ye done among you with 
my daughter — my Bertha ? Soho there, my lord, 
my Lord Pepin,” she called, “ what mockery or 
murder is here ! ” and as the lord mayor came 
hurrying into the apartment the now aroused and 
anxious mother caught his mantle and sunk to her 
knees. “ O, hast thou killed my child, my child 
Bertha ? ” she moaned. Then springing to her 
feet, she faced him fiercely. “ Monster, mur- 
derer,” she cried, “where is my daughter Bertha?”' 

“ Nay, madam, my mother,” said the Lord Pepin, 
“ calm thyself, for surely thou art mad. There lies 
thy daughter and my wife — the Lady Bertha.” 

“ That ! ” and the countess cast on the false 
Lady Bertha, a glance of contempt. “That is not 
my daughter ; that is my vassal-maiden ; that is my 
daughters tire-woman. That is Aliste!” 

“What trickery is here,” cried the now startled 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


93 


lord mayor. “ Who art thou girl ? speak, ere I 
slay thee.” 

And Aliste thus confronted with exposure, lost 
her customary effrontery and falling at the feet of 
the Lord Pepin, she cried : 

“ Pardon and mercy, my lord. My mother and 
father did bid me do it. I am not the Lady Ber- 
tha. I am her vassal-maiden and her cousin. I 
am Aliste.” 

The men of France, in the Lady Bertha’s day, were 
as yet scarce more than half civilized — unforgiving 
and brutal, quick to anger and quicker to revenge. 
That very day, so the record says, Aliste was hur- 
ried off to a convent cell, never again to see the 
light of the outer world. And the guilty Tybers, 
the Obgraf, with his no less guilty wife, Margiste, 
were burned alive by order of the enraged lord 
mayor. 

But all this did not bring the Lady Bertha back. 
For, though Morent, the lit us of Tybers, confessed 
that he had not the heart to kill so fair a maid as 
he had been commanded, the great forest of Mans 
was searched to no purpose. The Lady Bertha, 
could not be found. And for a very good reason. 
Who could expect to find in the serving-maid of a 
poor forester’s wife the bride of a great prince ? 

But from that day the Lord Pepin followed the 
chase only in the forest of Mans and became stern 


94 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


and silent, mourning for the bride he had thus won 
and lost. 

One day, deep in the heart of the forest, the 
lord mayor had tracked and brought to bay a great 
wild boar — one of those huge, gray-backed, ugly- 
tusked brutes that, in those • days especially, were 
strong and ferocious, and accounted as game 
worthy the stoutest heart and the strongest spear. 
Fighting the beast on foot, as was the hunter’s 
custom, the lord mayor had long since become 
separated from his attendants, and now held the 
boar at bay at the foot of one of the wayside 
crosses that in olden times marked many a cross- 
road in forest or moorland, silent reminders of some 
tragic death or some act of piety. 

It had been a hard and stubborn chase and, 
though wary of eye and firm of foot, the princely 
hunter felt that he had met his match. With 
bristling back and savage roar, the big boar gave a 
last charge, and the heavy spear, skilfully aimed, 
pierced the tough, gray hide, and dealt a ghastly 
death-wound. But even in the final agony of rage 
and pain, the brute turned with a sullen snap upon 
his conqueror, the haft of the great boar-spear 
broke in two and the next instant pig and prince 
came to earth together. 

The boar died as it dropped ; the heavy carcass 
fell across the prostrate hunter, pinning him to the 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


95 


•earth ; and, spent with exertion and dazed by his 
fall, the lord mayor lay as in a swoon, almost 
smothered by the weight that held him prisoner. 

An exclamation of surprise aroused him, and, 
opening his eyes, he saw bending above him the 
fair face of a young girl. The next instant a pair 
of stout but shapely arms were tugging at the dead 
boar to drag it from the hunter, while the impris- 
oned man helped as much as he could. But the 
dead boar was a heavy weight and would not 
budge. Then the sturdy girl, placing one foot 
against the brute’s side, with a mighty effort 
pushed the huge carcass from off the fallen hunter. 

The lord mayor staggered up as the weight 
rolled from him, but even as he did so he caught 
sight of the forest maiden’s feet, and saw that the 
foot which had pushed the boar away was much 
larger than the other. He looked up in amaze- 
ment at the face of this tall and strong and fair 
deliverer. She, too, remembered the short stature 
and rugged but not unkindly face of the man she 
had been told to fear. The recognition was mu- 
tual. 

“ Bertha ! My lost Bertha ! ” cried the prince. 

“ My Lord Pepin ! ” said the girl, and dropped on 
her knees before him. 

The sequel to this singular story — which reads 
almost like a fairy tale — is soon told. Explanation 


9 6 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


followed recognition, and happiness succeeded to 
explanation. Erelong the Lord Pepin and his new- 
found bride were speeding back to Paris, leaving 
the worthy Simon, the forester, and his good wife, 
Hilda, surprised and overjoyed at this strange re- 
covery, and well rewarded for their hospitality and 
kindness of heart. 

The news travelled through the land and the 
Castle of Laon rang with joyful acclamations. 
Ere another week had passed the marriage of 
Pepin and Bertha was celebrated with all the lavish 
though coarse magnificence of the time, and the 
shouts of “ hail ” and “ welcome ” to the bride of 
the lord Pepin that rang through the palace were 
redoubled when, standing before the royal throne 
in the palace of the kings, the major domus intro- 
duced his bride to the assembled seigniors and 
barons of the realm as Bertrada, Queen of the 
Franks. 

The act of usurpation long contemplated by 
Pepin and desired by the nobles of the kingdom 
was thus consummated. The weak and unworthy 
King Childeric III., with hair cut short and kingly 
dress removed, was sent to end his days in the se- 
clusion of a distant monastery, and the line of the 
Merovingian kings of France came to an end. 

But to them succeeded by this act of Pepin the 
mayor the notable line of the Carlovingian kings — 


THE TELL-TALE FOOT. 


97 


a royal family that for over two and a half centuries 
sat upon the throne of France, and ruled the great 
empire of the Franks. 

The Lady Bertha proved a wise and worthy 
queen, a fitting consort to an equally wise and 
worthy king. For Pepin le bref proved both just 
and victorious. His name, indeed, would stand 
among the highest of the kings of France, were it 
not overshadowed by the more warlike deeds of his 
father, Charles Martel, and the greater power and 
magnificence of his famous son, Charlemagne. As 
it is, the name and fame of Pepin le bref \ one of the 
ablest kings of F ranee, is lost in the greater name 
and fame of his famous father and his still more 
famous son. 

But for many and many a year, in romance, in 
legend, and in song, the name of the wife of Pepin, 
and the mother of Charlemagne has been a favorite 
and familiar one in every French and German 
nursery. The Queen Bertrada of French history 
has come down to us, noted not so much for her 
proud position as Queen of F ranee, as for that 
tell-tale foot that nearly brought her to grief and 
then saved her from it, and that through all these 
centuries has given to her the name by which she 
is best known — Bertha au grand pied — Bertha 
with the Big Foot. 



V. 

u THE REDE OF THE ELVES.” 


(.-/ Story of the Days of Alfred the A the ling.) 

[a.d. 856.] 

There was trouble and confu- 
sion in the realm of Ethelwulf, 
king of the West Saxons and 
lord of all England. Kent was 
in revolt ; Mercia was in open 
rebellion, and in all the southern 
kingdom, from the gates of Win- 
chester to the Marches of Wales, 
there was grumbling and plotting and treason. 
And all because of two children — a boy of eight 
and a girl of twelve. 

As one reads history it is surprising to note how 
often boys and girls will be found to have been at 
the bottom of the world’s troubles — especially if 
they have been princes or princesses. Here, now, 
was old King Ethelwulf. For twenty years he had 
ruled as lord of all England, and king in especial of 



THE REDE OF THE ELVES. 


99 


that southern portion known in the old Saxon days, 
as Wessex. And now, in this year of grace 856, 
because of a boy of eight and a girl of twelve, this 
old king who had passed his sixtieth birthday was 
in a sorry strait. 

The boy was the youngest and best beloved of 
his five sturdy Saxon sons — Alfred the Atheling, 
or young prince ; the girl was his little flaxen- 
haired French wife, Judith, the daughter of his. 
friend and ally, Charles, king of France, sometimes 
called “ the Bald,” and great-granddaughter of the 
mighty Emperor Charlemagne. 

Now it happened that in the year 856 King 
Ethelwulf of England had gone upon a pilgrimage 
to Rome ; and there the Pope, Leo the Fourth, 
had taken such a fancy to this brave, bright-faced, 
and reverent little English lad that he had made 
him, what was then known as “bishop-son,” or god- 
child, and, further, had “ hallowed ” or anointed 
him as the future king of the West Saxons. 

Bad news always travels fast, and you may be 
sure that the report of this preference of Pope Leo 
for the little Atheling was not long in speeding 
over-sea to England. And in England there were 
four other sons of King Ethelwulf, who thought 
they had each a much better right to the throne of 
Wessex, after their father’s death, than had this, 
youngest of all his sons. 


I GO 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


“ His name is Alfred,”* they said. “Rede of 
the elves is he ; for surely this fairy’s council-man 
hath bewitched with his spells both our foolish old 
father and our lord the Pope.” And it would have 
gone hard with poor little Alfred, in those days of 
superstition and belief in witchcraft, had his angry 
elder brothers been able to lay hands upon him. 

And so, forthwith, the three elder sons of King 
Ethelwulf — the Athelings Ethelbald, Ethelbert, 
and Ethelred — rose in rebellion against their father, 
the king, demanding their rights to the succession. 

But, before all this was done, King Ethelwulf 
and little Alfred were homeward bound, from 
Rome. And on their way they stopped awhile 
at Paris, as guests of the French king, Charles, 
called “ the Bald.” And, at Paris, for some reason 
or other not readily understood — though it was 
doubtless a political one, and because of a desire 
for the friendship and alliance of the French king 
against the common enemy of the two kingdoms, 
the Danish pirates of the north — King Ethelwulf 
obtained from King Charles the little Princess 
Judith, as his wife. 

The Princess Judith was a very beautiful and a 

* Alfred in Saxon, is Alfred, or zElf-raede, “ the rede of the elves," — 
that is the councillor of the elves or fairies. There have been those who 
tried to translate Alfred to mean “ all peace,” but there is no question as 
to the meaning of the great king’s name as “ the rede of the elves ” — “ the 
fairies’ council-man.” 


THE REDE OF TI1E FLEES. 


IOI 


very clever girl, but she had scarce outgrown the 
queer little French dolls that the queer little French 
girls of those far-off days used to play with. She 
was, in fact, scarcely twelve years old. This was 
bad enough ; but when it is known that old King 
Ethelwulf had another wife at home — the good 
queen, Osburh, daughter of the Earl Oslac, the 
royal cup-bearer, and mother to King Ethelwulf s 
five Saxon sons — and when it is also known that 
the old king had, in order to wed the little French 
princess, obtained a “ dispensation ” from the Pope 
by which he might “ put away” or divorce his old 
wife at home, we shall not wonder that his eldest 
sons were very angry at this treatment of their 
mother and grew still more rebellious. 

“It is contrary to the law of Wessex,” they said, 
“ that any woman shall be crowned queen of the 
West Saxons. Even our own good mother is not 
a crowned queen, and we will not have this baby 
girl from France to sit upon the throne of 
Wessex.” 

So you now can see how a boy of eight and a 
girl of twelve were at the bottom of all the trouble 
and turmoil in England. 

And, at last, back to England they came. But 
in England the cry was all against them, and only 
the stout Earl Ealher of Kent, and the good Bishop 
Swithun of Winchester, with their vassals and fol- 


102 


CHJVALRIC DA YS. 



lowers, were loyal to king Ethelwulf. And when 
he had come into his royal city of Winchester, the 
old king shut himself up in his castle in sore dis- 
tress, sick at heart over the turn affairs had taken 
and greatly puzzled as to 
what he could do to bring 
back his rebellious sons 
and his erring subjects. 

And the royal children 
who had come with him 
over-sea were also sore 
perplexed. For, though 
they were but children, 
they had seen enough of 
courts and palaces to 
know how much trouble 
and confusion could come 
to a realm when subjects 
were rebellious and prov- 
inces in revolt. 

One morning, within 
the pointed archways of 
“the old king ethelwulf was an upper window in the 
sick AT heart.” old cast l e at Winchester, 

this boy and girl sat deep in thought. At last, the 
little Atheling, looking up from the floor where he 
sat fondling his pet mastiff Egbert, said to the 
young queen Judith : 


THE REDE OF THE ELVES. 


103 


“ Would that I had but the fairy gift, little 
mother, like to Sir Bevis of Hamtoun, that could 
change my good Egbert here into an armed 
charger. Then would I, like a gallant knight, 
ride with my magic spear straight against these 
rebels of Wessex and make them cry for mercy 
and for pardon from their lord and father the king. 
But no,” he added, 
after a moment’s 
pause, still stroking 
the great dog thought- 
, “ that were scarce 
Christian wishing ; for 
is, sure, rank heathendom 
to wish for war-blows be- 
tween a father and his sons. 

Would, little mother, that 
I did but have 
fairy spell or salve that 
would heal all these 
woful odds and bring 
us together in love and peace once more.” And 
the gentle-hearted lad still stroked Egbert’s great 
head thoughtfully. 

“ Well then, my Alfred,” said clever young J udith, 
looking down at the boy, “ and why should it not 
be even as you wish ? You have told me that your 
name of Alfred doth mean the fairy’s council-man ; 



104 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


and, if their council-man, who b:tter should have 
aid and council from them than you ? ” 

“ Nay, nay, little mother,” said the lad, soberly, 
“rede of the elves I may be by name, but it ill 
becometh the bishop-son of our lord the Pope, to 
have aught to do with such 
pagan folk as elf or fay.” 

Queen Judith laughed a 
merry laugh. “ Why, what 
a solemn old prayer-man, 
it is,” said she. “ Have not 
the good priests of my fath- 
er’s court for all their long 
church-robes and priestly 
ways told me again and 
again how to read the riddles 
and woo the friendship of 
the fairy folk ? Why, then, 
should not you, my prince, 
who have the name of their 
council-man, try some test 
of their good-will to you. Mayhap it may save your 
father’s crown.” 

Curiosity lives in the heart of every boy and girl. 
And it always grows when it has some mystery to 
feed on. Alfred the Atheling was a wise little lad 
and a thoughtful one, but in those old days, when 
people were swayed more by superstition and 



THE REDE OF THE ELVES. 


105 


mystery than now, even such a clear-headed little 
lad as was he had strong faith in the existence and 
power of elves and fairies, gnomes and pixies. 

So, that very night both these royal children set 
out for the broad meadow-lands below the grim old 
castle on the search for the mystic circle known as 
the “ Fairy Ring/’ 

They found it at last — one of those “green-four 
ringlets ” that, so Shakspere tells us, 

“ These puppets elves do make/’ 
and which we now know are nothing more than 
grass-grown mole-tracks, or green mushroom 
ground. 

The moon shone softly down upon the “ Fairy 
Ring” in which, so ’t was said, the fairies danced 
on each full-moon and upon which, so thought the 
country folk, “whoever shall rest or build shall 
wonderfully prosper.” 

Young Alfred, following out the best known 
rules for all such elfin tests, walked slowly back- 
ward three times around the “ Fairy Ring,” while 
Judith, with head covered and eyes tightly closed, 
sang, also three times, slowly and softly : 

“ Rad- els, 

Rad-els , 

Elf and fay, 

Give me the truth without delay. 

Fire above, 


106 CHIVALRIC DAYS, 

Fire below, 

Light me to all I ask to know.” 

Then the boy, throwing himself across the 
grassy ring, lay with ear firmly pressed against the 
ground and waited for the reply of the elfin oracle. 

Every boy and girl knows that if they keep per- 
fectly still, with their thoughts fixed only upon a 
given subject, some idea or suggestion bearing 
upon the matter desired will come into their minds. 
This is one of the secrets of what is called nowa- 
days “ mind reading,” and this, too, has been the 
secret of many of the mysterious oracles and super- 
stitions of the past, unexplained and therefore not 
understood. 

And so it came to pass that, as the little Atheling 
lay curled up across that “ Fairy Ring,” with all his 
desires and thoughts fixed upon the questions he 
had asked the elves, two suggestions of answers 
kept framing themselves in his mind. 

But the sprightly young Judith, impatient of all 
this silence and delay, grew restless and uncom- 
fortable in the chill night air of the meadows. 

“Well, well, my Alfred,” she cried at last, “ do 
you hear nothing yet ? Surely, ere this, the elf- 
horses should be tramping about beneath you and 
the counsel of the elves should come to your ears.” 

“ I do but hear the grass grow and the crickets 
chirp, little mother,” replied the lad, thus inter- 


preting the faint sounds that run through the still 
meadow grass at night. “ And, indeed, I can 
think of naught save these two riddles all the 
time : 

What is law in Wessex is not Liw in Kent.' 

“ ‘ Half a loaf is better than no bread.' ” 

“ Why, that must be the fairies’ answer then, my 
Alfred,” said clever young Judith, clapping her 
hands with delight, “for they do always speak in 
riddles. Let us take their answer to good Bishop 
Swithun straight, and mayhap that holy man may 
read it rightly for us.” 

So off to Bishop Swithun they posted, and when 
they had confessed to him their tampering with 
such pagan things as elves and fairy rings, they 
told him of the fairies’ answer and begged him to 
unravel it for them. 

“ Surely therein doth Holy Writ say true,” the 
good bishop cried, “ when it doth declare that 
‘ out of the mouths of babes hath the Lord ordained 
strength that He mightest still the enemy and the 
avenger.’ I do see in this your riddle of the elves 
a way out of all this trouble that doth distress the 
land. Let us to the king.” 

So to King Ethelwulf they went. And when the 
Bishop Swithun had told him of the test and the 
reply, he added : “ Even so, lord king, doth wise 
advice come from these p-entle ones : 


o8 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ 1 What is law in Wessex is not law in Kent.” 

“ ‘ Half a loaf is better than no bread l ” 

See you not the wisdom of this ? The law that 
sayeth that no queen shall reign in Wessex is not 
Kentish law — therefore may the Lady Judith reign 
as queen in Kent ; and if half a loaf be better than 
no bread, keep thou the Kent part of the Saxon 
crown and let the Wessex half go in peace even to 
him who hath taken it — the Atheling Ethelbald.” 

The wisdom of this counsel was at once apparent 
to the perplexed old king, and he gladly accepted 
it and acted upon it. “ The Lord hath indeed hid 
many things from the wise and prudent and revealed 
them unto babes,” he said as he looked across the 
queer old table at his much loved son. “ Rede of 
the Elves art thou indeed, son Alfred,” he added, 
“ though I doubt not that such sage advice as this 
of thine cometh not from the pagan elf-folk, but 
from that heaven above whose child thou art.” 

So King Ethelwulf divided his kingdom with his 
eldest son and received great praise from all ; for 
when the people saw how trouble was averted and 
the realm made quiet, at once earl and alderman, 
thane and thrall praised the greatness and wisdom 
of their king and became more loyal than ever. 

But when two years more had passed, old King 
Ethelwulf died, and King Ethelbald, his eldest son, 
in the year 859, succeeded to the reunited thrones 



REDE OF THE ELVES ART THOU. 












I IO 


CHIVALKIC DA VS. 


of Wessex and Kent. And then the witan or great 
council of the kingdom, with the consent of King 
Ethelbald and his brothers, gave to the boy Alfred 
the title of secitndarius or under-king — thus con- 
firming the lad’s succession to the throne of Eng- 
land, even as Pope Leo years before had promised 
and “hallowed.” 

And, so curious were the ways and customs of 
those far-off times, it came about that after King 
Ethelwulf’s death, his son, the new King Ethelbald, 
married the clever young Judith, the widowed 
queen of fifteen, while young Alfred went again to 
live with his own mother, the ex-queen Osburh, 
whom his father Ethelwulf had so wickedly “ put 
away.” For the boy was ever loyal and loving to 
his mother, even while he loved and admired his 
sprightly young playmate, the child-wife of his 
father the king. 

The years rolled on, Ethelbald the king was 
dead. So too was King Ethelbert who succeeded 
him, and now the third of the brothers, Ethelred, 
ruled as king, while Alfred the Atheling, though 
yet scarce more than a boy, was “ second man ” in 
the kingdom. The fair young Judith, widow of 
two English kings, was back once more in her na- 
tive France, as wife to Baldwin, Duke of Flanders, 
there to become through her descendants the an- 
cestress of William the Conqueror and of the 
present royal line of England. 


THE A'EDE OF THE ELVES. 


I I I 


And, through all these years, Alfred grew to be 
a brave and gallant lad — “a glorious young man,” 
thus reads the old manuscript of Brother Simeon of 
Durham ; “ beloved of all the people/’ his friend 
and chronicler, Bishop Asser, declares ; “ comely 
in form, graceful in look, in speech, and in man- 
ners. ’ And the chronicler further tells us: “As 
the stag thirsts for the water, 
so did he thirst that his in- 
most soul should be satiated, 
and his bosom be imbued 
with heavenly learning 
He studied night and day 
to learn the Saxon poems, 
and was easy to be taught, 
industrious in the art 
of hunting, and incom- 
parable in even* 
perfection.” 

All of which 

is high praise for any lad ; but, to my thinking, 
one of the grandest things about young Al- 
fred the Atheling seems to have been his com- 
plete mastery of himself. For, all through his 
youth, — his “ cnithood,” as the old Saxon phrase 
runs, — at just the time when boys are most ambi- 
tious, most impatient of authority, and most desir- 
ous of asserting their own power and importance, 



I 12 


CHIVALKIC DAYS. 


this royal lad of a thousand years ago was gentle, 
unobtrusive, and retiring, even when he was strong 
and manly. He stood before the world an anoint- 
ed and acknowledged king, and yet waved his 
rights in favor of his elder brothers rather than 
make them his enemies and disturb the realm. 
Thus grounded and schooled in the noblest of all 
manly gifts — self-denial, modesty, and kindliness — 
the lad readily drew to himself the love of all the 
people, and seemed to them to be, indeed, what his 
name implied — celf-rczde, the favorite and council- 
man of the fairies who, so it was believed, watched 
over and protected him. 

One night King Ethelred gave a great feast to his 
earls and thanes, in his royal palace at Winchester. 
The low-ceiled hall was heavy with the smoke and 
smell of the banquet, for as the feasters sat around 
the oval tables, servants brought in from the kitchen 
the coarsely-cooked meats, all hot and smoking on 
the spits, for each guest to cut and carve as it suited 
him. The big drinking-cups foamed with ale and 
mead ; gleemen sang of love and valor ; harpers 
touched their strings and jugglers played their 
tricks, while tumbler and jester postured and joked 
for the amusement and enlivening of the guests. 

Suddenly, from the palace gates, comes a noise 
and stir, and the dull boom of the alarm drum falls 
upon the ears of the startled revellers. King 




U3 


THE APPROACH OF THE DANES 




CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


I'4 

Ethelred, with pale and anxious face, springs to his 
feet, looking almost unmannish, with his long, flow- 
ing ringlets and his parted beard ; the knife-tosser 
pauses in his dangerous game ; the jester stops his 
joking and the gleeman his song, and through the 
doorway enters hurriedly a thane of the palace. 

“Up, up, lord king,” he cried, “the pagan 
Danes are at our doors. Ivar the Boneless is in 
the East, Olaf the Fair in the North, and the 
dragon ships of the black pirate Hubba have 
stolen upon Stamfordtown. The beacons are 
aflame and King Burhred of Mercia sends plea for 
aid from you, his kinsman and overlord, ere that 
his land be desolated and his city of Nottingham be 
lost. See ; here waiteth the king’s runner for your 
answer to his lord.” 

It had come at last. For ten years and more 
the Danish pirates from the north had been threat- 
ening invasion to Wessex, as again and again the 
high-pro wed ships of the Vikings had brought fire 
and sword to the coast towns of England. And 
now they were to come in force — cruel, relentless, 
murderous, and strong. Could they be driven 
off? 

The feast was broken up ; the council assembled, 
and King Ethelred, uncertain what course to pur- 
sue, spoke for inaction and delay. 

But while thanes and council-men debated and 





xn 

H 

M 


<> 






KING ALFRED INCITING THE ANGLO-SAXONS TO REPEL THE INVASION OF THE DANES A. I). 867. 

(From the picture by Benjamin West.) 






1 16 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


planned, young Alfred, roused by these tidings 
of distress, spoke for instant action. 

“Our duty is to succor our kinsman and our 
folk, lord king,” he said ; “let us to Nottingham 
straight and stay these pagan pirates ere they try 
the passing of the Trent.” 

“But who shall say that they may not stay us, 
my brother ? ” demanded the cautious king. “ Let 
us rather see first what they seek to do and then 
may we, by hostage and delay, make test of the 
Danish power.” 

“ Who talks of delay when dangers press ? ” 
cried indignant Alfred. “ A man who is fearful 
and thinks himself needy or wretched, never fulfils 
what he longs for, unless he is brave in aiming at 
what he desires.” * 

Young Alfred’s “brilliant valor,” as the old 
chronicle terms it, carried the day. Earls and 
thanes echoed his ringing words with their cheers, 
and a hastily collected army was soon marching 
toward the north. 

The men of Mercia and Wessex, by hurried 
marches, “ made ” the passage of the Trent before 
the war-ships and land-men of the Danish host 
could push up the river. 

Inspired by the young Atheling’s brave example, 
— for Alfred himself manned the first boat that 


* The exact words of the old chronicle of Simeon of Durham. 


THE REDE OF THE EL FES. 


7 


pushed off to the attack, — the Saxon soldiers, 
“kindled with fury,” rushed against the Danes 
and drove them back to their entrenched camp 
across the river. 

Alfred and his men stormed the Danish earth- 
works but these were too stout to be broken by 
the inefficient siege-armor of those old days. The 
impetuous bravery of the young Atheling, however, 
had its effect, and the Danes, so the record says, 
“ asked peace and truce,” and fell back, baffled, to 
their winter quarters at York. But the soldiers of 
Wessex declared that the “fairy guardians” of 
their brave young Atheling shielded and helped 
him in his valorous fight. 

Three years more passed. Alfred had reached his 
twenty-first year when, suddenly, there fell upon 
England a greater host of Danish invaders than 
had ever yet harassed that fair island. Led on by 
their kings and jarls, the “ pagan pirates” fell upon 
the English coast towns, burst across the borders 
of Wessex, drove the fleeing Saxons before them, 
and, spreading sack and pillage in their path, held 
all Southern England at their mercy. 

Then, on that part of the chalk hills of Berkshire 
known as the heights of Ashdown, the Saxons 
turned at bay, and young Alfred vowed to strike 
one last blow in defence of his home-land. 

“ King Ethelred,” so the record says, “remained 


1 1 8 CHIVALRIC DA YS. 

so long a time in prayer ” that the young Atheling, 
though second in command, could wait no longer, 
but believing evidently in the old Latin saying 
laborare est orare, he cheered on his men and sprang 
right at the throat of the victorious foe. 

It was a terrible risk for the young prince to 
take. The odds were all against him ; the Danes 
held the advantage both in numbers and in position, 
and they were flushed with victory while the Saxons 
had all the terror of defeat. But Alfred knew that 
it was either fight or flight and, upheld by the jus- 
tice of his cause, “he started up in his valor,” so 
the old record tells us, “and rushed on the as- 
sembled multitude of the Danes.” 

He sees the great Danish war-banner of the 
Raven floating on the height above ; he sees the 
hosts of the invader preparing to fall upon him ; 
he sees his little army ready to fight or to flee as he 
may direct, and with one last cry for aid to “ God 
and St. Cuthbert,” he waves his soldiers forward 
and, so it is written, charges “ like a wild boar up 
the slope.” 

The fight raged fierce and hot; “both sides 
fought with manly intent,” and the “ Hill of the 
Ash ” rang with the mingling war-cries of Dane and 
Englishman. But Alfred’s valor was stronger than 
the Danish battle-axe ; at just the right moment 
King Ethelred and his men came storming up the 









% 


AT ASHDOWN. 
II 9 


ALFRED 







120 


CII1VALRIC DA VS. 


height ; “ boundless fear took hold upon the 
Danes ” ; and, utterly defeated, with their leaders 
dead and thousands of their people slain, the rem- 
nant of the invading army “took to a disgraceful 
flight.” 

So was Wessex saved by the valor of one brave 
young leader who dared to take a mighty risk and 
whose name has come down even to our time as 
that of the young victor of Ashdown. 

Two months later, in April 871, King Ethelred 
died, and Alfred the Atheling, scarce yet twenty- 
two, “ by God’s permission,” so runs the old 
chronicle, “ undertook the government of the whole 
kingdom amid the acclamation of all the people.” 

And here our story of the boy Alfred properly 
ends. The struggles and sorrows, the glories and 
honors of his later years are those of the man Al- 
fred and fill one of the best-known and most at- 
tractive pages of English history. But the story of 
King Alfred is more than mere history. It yields so 
grand a lesson of endurance and endeavor, of priva- 
tion and patience, of untiring energy, and unwaver- 
ing faith in the final result, that, to read it, must be 
an inspiration and a help to every boy and to every 
girl as well. 

For eight years he strove and struggled against 
the Danish invaders, and at last, by the victory of 
Eddington and the peace of Wedemore, gained the 



(From an old English print.) 


I 2 I 













22 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


prize of his constancy and his valor, and earned the 
title of “ the Great.” 

Then he made England a nation. By just laws 
and wise methods, by his own high example and 
spotless life, he welded into one all the varying 
interests of his island realm, and is known to the 
world by his proudest title — Alfred the English- 
man. 

But remember this, boys and girls: Alfred the 
boy was the forerunner of Alfred the man ; Alfred 
the prince and soldier was the prophecy of Alfred 
the king, the conqueror, and the statesman. 

“ So long as I have lived,” were almost his closing 
words, “ I have striven to live worthily,” and the 
esteem and veneration in which men hold his 
memory and regard his work show how truly 
and how faithfully he kept to this noble aim. 

Alfred the Great is one of the few men of the 
past whom it is easy to praise without stint. Mr. 
Freeman, the most searching and critical of Eng- 
lish historians, maintains that Alfred is “ the most 
perfect character in history — a saint without super- 
stition, a scholar without ostentation, a conqueror 
whose hands were never stained by cruelty.” 

He, of all men, most deserves the title of “ Great” ; 
and the lad whose old Saxon name seemed to prom- 
ise a life of success, of wisdom, and of excellence — 
sElf-rczde, “ the fairy’s council-man ” — is worthy the 


THE REDE OF THE ELVES. 


23 


study and admiration of all who honor nobility of 
character or kindliness of heart. 

“ The love which he won a thousand years ago,” 
says the historian, Green, “has lingered around his 
name from that day to this. . . . While every 

other name of those earlier times has all but faded 
from the recollection of Englishmen, that of Alfred 
remains familiar to every English child.” 




VI 

THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 

(A Story of the Days of the Boy-King, Richard of England?) 

[a. ix, 1381.] 

T was June in old England — 
a bright, beautiful En 
June, that poured its cheery 
sunshine upon the queer 
roofs and gables and long 
gray walls of the quaint old 
city, until, from the great 
White Tower at the eastern 
limit to the stout keep of Baynarde’s Castle at 
the western end, the London of the year 1381 
was aglow with light. And here where the 
shine was cheeriest, in the historic section known 
as Blackfriars, close to the western gate, a group 
of lively and ragged street boys had gathered 
in admiration around one of their number who 
was walking before them, not upon his tough 



124 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS . 


125 


young feet, but upon his even tougher young 
hands. He was a sturdy though tattered little 
urchin of fifteen, and plainly the leader of the 
band of young ragamuffins, who applauded loud 
and long, as with bare, brown legs wildly waving 
in air, he performed before them all on the sunny- 
side of the Blackfriars Wall. But these ragged lit- 
tle tatterdemalions were not gathered under Black- 
friars Wall simply to witness this amateur circus 
performance. They were “laying” for lawyers, as 
our boy-slang of to-day would express it, though 
just how it was expressed in the street-boy talk of 
five hundred years ago, we have no means of know- 
ing. And they were alive to their privileges. It 
was the great riot year of 1381 — the year of the 
Peasants’ Revolt. Death to every lawyer had 
been decreed by the leaders of the mob, and 
these ragged young rascals were scouring the 
streets of old London — on the hunt for any 
defenceless “ man of lawe,” whom they might un- 
earth and torment as the representative of that 
hated class. For the lawyers were supposed to be 
at the bottom of all the turmoil and trouble then 
abroad in England. 

Turn from your pleasant home-comforts and walk 
for an hour through the swarming and tenement- 
crowded regions of Mott or Baxter, or Crosby 
streets in our own teeming city of New York, 


126 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


or in similar sections of the great cities of our 
land. Times have changed but little in all the 
years of the world’s history, and the “wolf-reared 
children ” of old London five hundred years ago 
differed but slightly from the ragged, saucy, un- 
principled street-waifs of to-day ; and raggedest, 
sauciest, shrewdest of all was surely this same 
Diccon the Japer, or Dick the Joker, as he was 
nicknamed, who now kicked his heels in air under 
the very walls of the palace of the Royal Ward- 
robe — that “ good and comely tower for the king’s 
ease and satisfaction,” as the old record calls it, 
built “ in the bend of the wall of the Church of 
the Blackfriars,” and within which Richard, the 
boy-king of England, with his royal mother, his 
lords, and his councillors, had taken refuge from 
the storm and sack of the victorious mob. 

“ Let might help right 
And skill help will, 

And the Duke and the Deacon 
Shall grind in our mill,” 

trolled out Diccon the Japer in one of the rude 
jingles of the day, as with serene satisfaction he 
turned a double somersault and paraded again be- 
fore his companions on tough and grimy hands. 

But pride goes before a fall, and Diccon’s fall 
speedily came ; for with a thwack, thwack, thwack, 
there descended upon the startled lad a series of 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS . 127 

rapid blows dealt with the flat of the sword by the 
leader of “a loyal band of bills and bows” — John 
Cavendish of Suffolk, “ one of the king’s squires,” 
as Froissart, the chronicler, calls him. 

“Clear me these beggars . straight ! ” he com- 
manded, and with lowered bills the “ loyal 
band ” charged upon the frightened urchins, 
scattering them left and right. But boys were 
boys in the fourteenth as in the nineteenth cen- 
tury, and, breaking before this dash of the guard, 
they halted at a safe distance, and, after the man- 
ner of boys disturbed in dubious pranks, they 
played upon the name of their pursuer and his 
duties as a waiter on royalty. 

“ Hey O, Carve and Dish ; Carve and Dish ! ” 
they shouted ; “ where ’s thy tuck and trencher, 

Carve and Dish?” 

Then racing along the causeway, where now the 
splendid Thames embankment lifts its massive wall 
from the river, they dashed into the city and vented 
their spleen by making contemptuous faces at the 
gory heads of the murdered Archbishop of Canter- 
bury and Richard Lyon, the tax-commissioner, 
which, stuck on long spikes, adorned London 
Bridge. This done they darted off toward 
Smithfield, singing with gusto the popular 
rhyme which the “mad priest,” John Ball, had 
made for them : 


128 


CHIVALRJC DA VS. 


“ When Adam delv’d and Eve y-span, 

Who then was the gentylman ? ” 

Soon after this Rout of the Ragamuffins, the 
gates of the Palace of the Royal Wardrobe swung 
open wide, and another boy rode through the bright 
June sunlight, by Blackfriars Wall and along the 
river causeway. Windows were thronged and 
children pointed and cheered as the cavalcade 
passed along through London’s crooked streets, 
and many an anxious citizen and many a cautious 
good-wife called down blessings upon the head of 
this royal lad. Spear top and bill-blade, casque 
and corselet, gleamed in the sun as knights and 
spearmen rode, a glittering guard, around the boy- 
king, Richard II. of England. He was a hand- 
some, manly, golden-haired young fellow of sixteen. 
Right gallantly he rode his favorite white horse, 
Barbery, and from the tip of his curious long- 
pointed boot to the great fluted collar at his neck 
and the streaming white plume in his velvet bon- 
net, he looked the kingly boy he was — the son of 
the people’s hero, Edward the Black Prince. A 
shining figure in those far-off days was this fair 
young monarch of sixteen, and he seems to have 
merited in some degree the praises of his loyal 
courtier and chronicler, Richard de Maydstone, 
who said of him : “ There is not another such 

youth in the whole world, who, like him, knows 



WATCHING KING RICHARD GO BY 






130 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


how to rule his kingdom with the wisdom of 
Solomon.” 

And, indeed, it needed the wisdom of Solomon 
to deal with the questions that daily confronted this 
clever young prince. We all hear much nowa- 
days of the rights and wrongs of the workingman, 
of communism, of strikes and labor disturbances. 
They are fruitful of much worry and debate to the 
wisest heads of our day, who would, if possible, 
“ reconcile the opposing claims of labor and capi- 
tal.” But this reconciliation is no easy task, as 
soon found this royal lad of five centuries back, 
when, almost the first of England’s kings, he faced 
the problem that threatened his realm with all its 
fury of passion and pillage, in the dark days of 
Wat Tyler’s rebellion. The laboring classes, the 
commons or “ villeins ” of England, as they were 
called, after years of tyranny, oppression, and 
want, had rebelled against the levying of a hated 
tax, much as did our forefathers in Revolutionary 
days. Taking up arms against the wealth and 
power of England, the men of Kent and the men 
of Essex, the commons of Hertford and the “ vil- 
leins ” of St. Albans, with many “broken men 
skilled in arms,” and other “ landless men and 
sturdy beggars ” (so the old record terms them), 
had banded together under the captainship of de- 
termined leaders, and from thorpe and farm, from 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 131 

town and hamlet, swarmed along either bank of 
the Thames, and, storming through the city gates, 
had obtained almost complete possession of the 
London streets, where now they were burning, 
ransacking, and overturning. 

“ What is it ye want ? ” asked the young king, as, 
at Mile End, he one day encountered some of his 
riotous commons. 

“No tax, no serfs, and the head of every lawyer 
in England,” came the stern reply ; “ for not till 
these are killed will the land enjoy its old freedom 
again.” 

But uproar and riot are the height of bliss to the 
street-boys of every age, and the days that terrified 
nobles and peace-loving citizens, and forced even 
the young king to seek safety behind stout stone 
walls, were “ high old times” to Diccon the Japer, 
and the rabble of restless urchins that thronged the 
heels of the Peasants’ Revolt. And so on this 
morning of which we write, Saturday, the 15th of 
June, 1381, these two boys of Blackfriars, the low- 
est and the highest in the land — Diccon the Japer 
and Diccon the king — went their ways through the 
cheery sunshine, the one bent on mischief, the other 
on mastery. Let the story say with what result. 


Along the river causeway and through the city 
streets to stately Westminster rode the boy-king. 


132 


CIIIVALRIC DA YS. 


It was the birthday of his father, Edward the Black 
Prince, the young hero of Crecy, whose memory 
all the realm held dear, but the fair face of King 



Richard wore a 
troubled look, 
while the spirit 
of determina- 
tion gleamed in 
his eyes. Twice 
now had the re- 
bellious peasants 
thwarted his 
plans for their re- 
lief, while the bloody heads on London Bridge and 
the terror of his lady mother, whom the mob had 


“HE 1IAD WALKED AND THOUGHT. 


THE BOYS OF BLACK FRIARS. 


133 


insulted and reviled, called for speedy punish- 
ment from this spirited young monarch, who cher- 
ished the desire to protect the defenceless that 
every lad of mettle feels, be he prince or ploughboy. 
In the quiet of the sunlight gardens behind the 
stout walls of his 44 Palace of the Wardrobe,” 
young Richard had that very morning walked and 
thought long and earnestly for so young a lad, and 
had at last reached a decision how to act toward 
his rebellious people, no matter how courtier or 
councillor might advise to the contrary. So, 
after mass in Westminster, he and his lords rode 
through the city gates towards the broad plain of 
44 Smoothfield,” or Smithfield, now the great cattle- 
market of London, but then a pleasant suburb of 
the city, where tilts and tournaments were held, and 
where the people of old London often gathered in 
times of pleasure or of popular discontent. Here 
now the great body of the rebellious commons was 
massed, and here, where the throng was densest, 
crowded Diccon the Japer and his lawless young 
comrades. 

44 But when shall I have pay for the sixty doub- 
lets I furnished thee, good Master Wat?” asked an 
anxious-faced tailor of a burly, bearded man, care- 
lessly dressed and stern of face, who stood with one 
hand on the crupper of his big black horse. 

44 Make thyself easy, Master Doublet-maker,” 


134 


CHIVALRTC DA YS. 


said the man with the horse ; “ for as sure as thy 
name is John Tide and mine Wat Tyler thou shalt 
be well paid by this very day’s business,” and Wal- 
ter the “ tiler ” or blacksmith of Dartford, whom 
history calls Wat Tyler, turned from the uneasy 
doublet-maker and looked searchingly toward 
London. 

“ How now, varlets ! ” he broke out angrily as 
his eye fell upon young Diccon and his companions 
elbowing through the crowd ; “ where got ye that 
mass of truck ? ” 

The boys stopped short at the sound of his 
voice, for these exuberant youths stood in great 
awe of the stout chief of the rebels, whom men 
called the “ King of the Commons.” They were 
dragging after them various trumpery bits of spoil 
— this one a broken pike-staff, that one a tattered 
bit of • brilliant tapestry, another a gilded bridle- 
rein, and, dropping his boldness before the black- 
smith’s searching glance Diccon answered humbly 
enough, “Why. from old John of Gaunt’s burnt-up 
palace, Master Captain.” 

The wrath of the leader broke over all bounds. 

“ Thou graceless young jangler,” he cried, 
fetching such a cuff on Diccon’s hard little pate as 
sent him sprawling to the ground ; “did I not fling 
big Joe the carter into the flames for daring to 
filch a silver tankerd from the sack of old John of 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 1 35 

Gaunt’s house of the Savoy ? And said I not that 
I would hang any man in chains that dared take 
aught that was not his own ? We burn not for 
booty but for revenge, and I have a mind to string 
thee and all thy young jackanapes like so many 
crows here under the elms of Smithfield. So mind 
thyself and mend thy ways, for, by my faith, I will 
not spare thee if ever again I find thee playing the 
thief and pilferer in my train.” 

And then Diccon and his fellow-culprits crawled 
away, realizing as do so many of us in time, that 
the sweets of victory have not always so jolly a 
taste as we had looked for. 

As they hung, somewhat subdued but still keen- 
eyed and watchful, upon the edge of the crowd, 
they spied a glittering company of horsemen 
moving across the moor toward the camp of the 
commons. Diccon, as a wide-awake London boy, 
knew “ the king’s cognizance ” or coat-of-arms, and 
knew, too, the flowing robes and imposing person 
of the worshipful William Walworth, fish-monger 
and lord mayor of London, who had joined the 
royal escort with 

“ A loyal band of bills and bows, 

Collected from our tallest men of trade.” 

King and commons were to meet at last, and 
Diccpn scented trouble with the unerring instinct 


136 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


of every street-boy who knows whenever there is a 
“ row ” on hand, though he may be blocks away. 
So his curiosity got the better of his awe and he 
edged in toward where the burly blacksmith still 
stood by the crupper of his big horse. 

“Yon rides the king,” said Wat Tyler, turning 
to his men. “ Now our day is come. I will go 
speak with him, but wait ye here and watch my 
hand. When ye shall see this sign,” he continued, 
giving his right hand a downward sweep, “ press 
ye in and kill every man of his train. But spare 
the king, on your lives. Hurt him not, for he is yet 
young, and once in our hands we may do with him 
as we will and bend the laws to our desires.” 

Here was news for Diccon. Your real live 
street-boy may be loyal to his fellows in row and 
raid, but he never forgets and never forgives an 
injury. Diccon’s head still smarted from Wat 
Tylers blow, and, without a second thought as to 
results, as the blacksmith spurred his horse toward 
the king’s train, away, too, sped Diccon, close at the 
heels of the big black courser. 

Nearer drew the young king’s train, and Diccon, 
slipping around unnoticed in this time of excite- 
ment, reached the royal line first and mingled with 
the archers. They would have driven him off, but 
he whispered, “ Hold me fast, I have word for the 
king!” So with jeers and jokes they passed him 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 137 

along to Sir John Newton, a knight of the kings 
guard. Roughly handled and hustled about, Dic- 
con bore the indignities without a murmur, and to 
the knight’s hasty exclamation, “ Well, how now, 
young ribald ? ” he answered as hastily, “ Look to 
the captain ; watch for Wat Tyler’s down stroke. 
’T is the sign for the killing of ye all ! ” 

Sir John looked at the boy sharply and then, 
turning to a spearman, said : “ Tie this young 

varlet to thy saddle-bow, Ellis. We will test his 
truth.” Then he joined the king. 

Meanwhile Wat Tyler had approached so closely 
to the young king that the black horse’s head 
touched the white horse’s crupper. Diccon, tied 
with a stout thong to Ellis’ saddle-bow, looked 
shrewdly at this meeting of the leaders, and, con- 
trasting all the glory of the royal youth with the 
rough ways and iron hand of his former hero, went 
over body and soul to the gleam and glitter of the 
boy-king, not seeing, as should we five hundred 
years after, that the justice of the cause for which 
Wat Tyler stood was greater than princely bearing 
and gilded crest. 

The big, burly blacksmith looked down in open 
contempt upon the golden-haired boy before him. 
What could a stripling like that, he thought, know 
of the woes and wants of grown men ? He glanced 
at young Richard’s slender guard of barely sixty 


138 


CHIVALRIC DA YS . 


horsemen, and then looked confidently upon his 
own backing of over thirty thousand stalwart coun- 
trymen. 

“ King,” he said, “ dost thou see those men ?” 

“Yes,” replied Richard, quietly, “but why dost 
thou ask that ? ” 

“ Because,” said Wat Tyler, “they are bound to 
me by vow and by bond to do whatsoever I may 
ask from them.” 

“Very well,” said the king, “I do not object. 
But so too art thou bound to me as vassal to 
lord, and I, as thy leader and king, ask thee to 
obey my word. Disperse this, thy following. 
Depart from London. Be peaceable and careful, 
and, on the word of a king, ye shall all have right 
and justice.” 

“ A boy’s word is as no word,” said the rebel 
chief, contemptuously. “ ’T is not enough, O king. 
Things will never go well in this our England so 
long as goods be not in common — so long as ye go 
in velvets and we in poor cloths — so long as there 
be gentlemen and villeins.” 

“Thou impudent churl,” exclaimed the hot- 
headed Sir John Newton, pressing forward and 
laying his hand upon his sword. “ How dar’st 
thou thus address thyself to the king’s high- 
ness ? ” 

Wat Tyler turned upon him in a rage. 







■» 




















waamaasm 



] 39 





















140 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ Ha, is it thou, Newton ?” he said. “ Dost thou 
forget the forge at Dartford, and how that thou 
hadst me — me, a freeman of Essex, whipped at 
the cart’s tail? But ’t is my turn now. Here, 
give me thy dagger ! ” 

“ I will give it thee three inches deep in thy caitiff 
heart,” hotly replied stout Sir John. 

“ Give it me, I say,” demanded Wat Tyler, “ or, 

by the mass ” and both Diccon and Sir John 

looked for the downward signal. But the king, 
touching the knight’s arm, said quietly : “ Give 
him up thy dagger.” 

In much surprise the angry knight looked into 
the boy’s calm face and hesitated, but the king 
added in low tones : “ Thou knowest my lord of 
Salisbury’s advice: ‘Fair words and good humor 
when thou must, or England is a desert.’ Give 
him thy dagger, Sir John.” 

Reluctantly enough the dagger was given up. 
“Now, my friend,” said the king, “what wantest 
thou yet ? ” 

Wat Tyler was too deeply stirred by the sight 
of his old enemy, Sir John Newton, to act with his 
accustomed coolness ; and therein he missed his 
opportunity. For instead of pressing upon the 
king the great needs of the people, he put his own 
quarrel uppermost and sought to humble his old- 
time master and judge. 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 


HI 

“Now, give me thy sword, too,” he demanded, 
pressing close with dagger in hand to Sir John’s 
side. But this was too much for the old knight. 

“That will I not,” he replied, hotly. “ This good 
sword is the king’s, and not for such as thou to 
wear. Base rebel that thou art, if but thou and I 
were alone together, thou hadst not dared speak 
thus to me for all the gold in England.” 

The blacksmith’s swarthy cheek flamed red with 
bitter rage. 

“ A black murrain on thee ! ” he burst out. “ By 
my troth, I will not eat this day till I have thy 
head ! ” 

In between the angry men pressed the Worship- 
ful William Walworth, Lord Mayor of London. 
Tall, commanding, and firm of face, there was a 
moral argument almost in his flowing, civic robes. 

“Thou scoundrel,” he said to Wat Tyler, “how 
dar’st thou thus behave in presence of thy king ? 
It is too impudent for such as thou.” 

The blacksmith turned upon his new adversary 
contemptuously. 

“ Hollo, is it thou, too, old fish-monger ? ” he 
cried. “ What mattereth it to thee what I may 
say or do ? So guard thy tongue, or mayhap thy 
head may glower too on London Bridge alongside 
that of His late High and Mighty Grace the Arch- 
bishop ! ” 


142 


CHVIALKIC DA YS. 


At these brutal words the young king’s mettle 
rose above his desire for peaceful measures. 

“ This passeth all,” he exclaimed. “ Lay hands 
on him ! ” and Walworth, with a king to back him, 
said stoutly : “ What, then, doth it become a 

clown like thee to parley with thy natural lord the 
king ? If that thou pay’st not well for such impu- 
dence, may I never see the Guildhall again ! ” and 
Diccon, still tied to the saddle-bow of Ellis the 
spearman, almost doubled up with excitement when 
the lord mayor, as the old record states, “drew a 
kind of cimeter he wore and struck Tyler such a 
blow with it as felled him to his horse’s feet.” At 
once the “ king’s squire,” John Cavendish, who had 
chased Diccon and his comrades from before the 
Blackfriars Wall, leaped from his horse and stabbed 
the fallen rebel as he lay upon the ground. Once, 
twice, the murderous steel pierced the unconscious 
Tyler’s back, and then the blacksmith of Dartford, 
the champion of the people, the “ King of the 
Commons,” lay dead before the boy-king of 
England. 

Uproar and commotion, following the first sur- 
prise, swayed the leaderless mob, and from thirty 
thousand throats went up the savage cry : “ Kill, 
kill ; they have slain our captain ! ” 

Out of great opportunities great deeds may * 
sometimes come, and, boy though he was, Richard 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS. 


M3 


the king proved equal to the emergency. Nearer 
pressed the crowd, the bowmen of Kent leading 
them on. Shafts were strung and bills were 
lowered threatingly, when suddenly the boy-king 
shook himself free from the circle of his slender 
guard and rode boldly up before that bristling line 
of bows. 

“ Why all this clamor, my liege men ? ” he cried 
with brave young voice. “ Are ye displeased at 
the death of a foul and dastard traitor ? / am your 
captain and your king. Follow me ! ” 

At his words a change came over the angry mob. 
Crowds are fickle, and a living leader has more in- 
fluence than a dead one. Erect and manly on his 
white horse Barbery, with the bright June sun 
gleaming on plume and armor and unsheathed 
sword, the youthful face and undaunted courage of 
the fair young prince won the hearts of his rebell- 
ious subjects. The uplifted weapons fell harmless 
to the ground, and as the boy-king wheeled his 
horse around and rode within the circle of his 
guard, they all, so says the historian, “ followed 
him with a touching loyalty and trust till he entered 
the Tower.” 

And Diccon the Japer said to Ellis the spear- 
man : “ Marry, good sir, saved I not the king’s life 
right happily ? ” 

“ Thou sly-tongued jackanapes ! ” cried the bluff 


144 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


old soldier. “ Thou crowest bravely for a half- 
fledged chick. Thou savedst the king’s life ? Ha, 
ha, ha ! ’T is but by his royal mercy in overlooking 
such a worm as thou that the king’s highness hath 
saved thy life. But come, lad, I ’ll take thee as my 
foot-boy, and perchance a good training and a 
ready lash may make a man of thee.” And so, to 
the envy of his fellows, Diccon the Japer became 
in time Rick the Courserman and rode to the wars 
with the king. 

“ O Richard, O my son,” the boy-king’s weeping 
mother is said to have exclaimed as she welcomed 
him with open arms, “ what pain and anguish have 
I not suffered for thee this day ! ” 

“ That do I know, madam,” said the lad, “but 
now rejoice and thank God ; for I have this day 
recovered my heritage which was lost and my realm 
of England.” 

Thus, by a happy thought, by a brave front, and 
a wonderful presence of mind, this boy of sixteen 
faced a mob of thirty thousand angry men and 
saved England from riot and from blood. But in 
our admiration of his courage we must not forget 
that the people had right and justice on their side, 
and that the boldness of their stand gave strength 
to their cause in after-years. For full five centuries 
their brave leader, Wat Tyler, the blacksmith of 
Dartford, has been branded as “ a seditious and 


THE BOYS OF BLACKFRIARS . 


145 


pestilent fellow,” as “ a contentious braggart ” and 
“ a bad man ” ; but he seems rather to have been 
one of the earliest of those patriots of the people 
whose acts have helped to make England liberal 
and America free. In the mistaken action by 
which he lost his life we can see how important it 
is that a hasty temper and the pride of private 
grievance should have no place in the heart of one 
who seeks to direct and lead those who trust to 
his guidance. Washington triumphed through the 
strength of character that made him calm alike in 
victory and defeat. Wat Tyler failed through the 
weakness that places private wrongs above the 
public welfare. 

The later years of King Richard’s life were full 
of sorrow and disaster, brought about by the ob- 
stinacy and love of luxury that he developed as 
he grew to manhood. But for us there is much 
to remember and to admire in the unflinching 
courage in the face of danger and of death, that 
marks this scene in the early life of Richard 
Plantagenet, second of the name, the boy-king of 
England. 

This story of young Richard and the rebels at 
Smithfield comes with fresh interest to us of to- 
day in the light of recent events. On Saturday, 
the 6th of May, 1882, the brutal assassination of 


46 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Lord Frederick Cavendish, in Phoenix Park, Dub- 
lin, filled the civilized world with horror. Before a 
year had passed the cowardly assassins were run 
to earth by detectives and informers, and were 
speedily tried, convicted, sentenced, and punished. 
Their deed was dastardly, but thus “ time brings its 
own revenges,” for this young Lord Cavendish who 
fell beneath the assassin’s knives in Phoenix Park 
was a lineal descendant of that same John Caven- 
dish of Suffolk, “ one of the king’s squires,” who, 
on the 15th of June, 1381, stabbed to death Wat 
Tyler, the blacksmith, as he lay helpless before the 
Abbey Church at Smithfield. It is always an un- 
manly deed to strike a fallen foe, but history must 
tell of unmanly acts as well as noble doings. Knight- 
ed by the hand of the boy-king the “gentleman 
assassin” arose Sir John Cavendish, rewarded for 
his slaughter of a defenceless man by a title and an 
estate, and became thus the founder of the princely 
family of Devonshire, now one of the proudest in 
the peerage of England. 

But, notwithstanding those unknightly deeds 
that, quite as forcibly as the chivalric ones, link 
the centuries together, there is to be found so 
much of interest in this story of the boys of Black- 
friars, that it cannot, it seems, be more appropri- 
ately concluded than with this closing verse of the 
ballad which the poet Chaucer, “ the father of Eng- 


THE BOYS OF BLA CKFRIARS. 


147 


lish verse,” addressed to Richard the boy-king five 
hundred years ago : 

“ 0 Prince, desire to be honorable ; 

Cherish thy folk and hate extortion ; 

Suffer nothing that may be reprovable 
To thine estate, done in thy reign. 

Show forth the sword of castigation ; 

Fear God, do law, love truth and worthiness, 

And wed thy folk again to steadfastness." 




VII. 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 


{A Story of Old Servia , and how Paul and his Sisters saw the White 
Vila of the Fountain.) 

[a. d. , 1389.] 



HREE children were swinging and swaying 


1 upon the bending branches of a stout Vistula 
cherry-tree — clinging and swinging and swaying 
there with shouts and laughter, in the same jolly 
way that you and I have swung, many a time, from 
the over-hanging limbs of some springy willow or 
fragrant apple-tree in our own American meadows. 
But these noisy swingers were not Americans. 
They were the children of an old race and of a far- 
off day. Strong-limbed, fair-haired, blue-eyed, Paul 
and his two sisters— Rosa and Mira — were children 
of Servia, natives of that slightly known but most 
interesting section of Eastern Europe whose plains 
and passes and wooded hill-slopes have echoed the 
war-cries of Roman and Byzantine, of Barbarian 
and Turkish conquerors from distant ages until 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 1 49 

now. Take your atlas and turn to the map of 
Turkey in Europe, follow the winding course of 
the “beautiful blue Danube” until you reach Bel- 
grade, and there, stretching to the east and south, 
ribbed with mountain ranges and crossed by several 
rivers, is the old kingdom of Servia, the country 
where, on a verdant hill-slope, near to the ancient 
city of Karanovatz, on a bright June morning away 
back in the year 1389, Paul and his two sisters were 
swinging merrily on the lower branches of their 
favorite cherry-tree, or, as they called it, their 
vishnia. As thus they swung, they could catch 
glimpses now and then, across the dark-green fir- 
tops, of the tall, gray towers of the royal palace of 
King Lazarus, from which floated the imperial ban- 
ner of the double eagle, and of the ivy-covered walls 
of the old monastery of Siczi, “ the Cloister of the 
Seven Gates.” And well they knew, simple chil- 
dren though they were, the stirring stories of Ser- 
vian valor and of Servia’s greatness. Often had 
they heard, both at the meetings of the grave 
elders, and from gray old Ivan the bard, as he 
sang to the music of the rude guitar, or gusle, how 
the palace was built in the early days of the kings ; 
how from it had marched to victory the royal Ste- 
phen, the mighty Tzar, whose flag had floated over 
many a battle-field, until the power of Servia was 
acknowledged from the white walls of Belgrade to 


50 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


the azure waters of the Grecian seas ; how, in the 
holy cloister of Siczi, each new king of the line of 
Stephen had been crowned with the “ diadem of 
Dushan,” and, sword in hand, had issued from the 
cloister as king of Servia, through a new door cut 
for his special exit in the ivy-covered wall ; and 
how, now, seven gates for seven kings had thus 
been cut, and the noble Lazarus ruled as the 
seventh king of Servia in his palace at Karano- 
vatz. All this they knew, for they were Servian 
children — proud of the old tales and legends told 
at the fireside, and dearly loving the green hills 
and fertile valleys of Servia, and, best of all, the 
waving forests that circled and shadowed their own 
Servian home. 

And, as they swung, now high, now low, they 
played at their game of king and queen, singing 
the song known to every boy and girl of Servia. 
It was thus that Paul sang to Rosa : 

“ The king from the queen an answer craves : 

How shall we now employ our slaves ? ” 

And Rosa answered : 

“ The maidens in fine embroidery, 

The widows to spin flax-yarn for me, 

And the men to dig in the fields for me." 

Then Paul sang to Mira : 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 151 

“ The king from the queen an answer craves : 

How shall we, lady, feed our slaves ? ” 

And Mira replied : 

“ The maidens shall have the honey-comb sweet, 

The widows shall feed on the finest wheat, 

And the men of maize-meal bread shall eat.” 

But just as they were about to sing the next 
verse, in which the king asks : 

“ Where for the night shall rest our slaves ? ” 

they heard a shout and a rustle, and Mira’s pretty, 
dappled fawnkin, Lado, all timid and trembling, 
came flying to the children for safety and protec- 
tion ; and almost before Mira and Rosa could calm 
the frightened creature, and Paul, snatching up a 
stout cherry-branch, could stand on guard, a swoop- 
ing falcon darted down at poor Lado’s head. The 
girls screamed, and shook their silken jackets at 
the fierce bird ; but Paul, swinging his cherry-stick, 
struck the bird on its sleek gray neck, and stretched 
it, a dead falcon, at his feet. 

“ O Paul, Paul ! O Lado, Lado ! ” cried both the 
girls in mingled joy and fear, as they stroked their 
rescued pet and trembled for Paul’s safety ; for he 
had killed, perhaps, one of the royal falcons. 

They were not kept long in suspense, for there 
came galloping up to them, mounted on a swift 


152 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


Wallachian pony, a stout-built youth of some six- 
teen years, richly dressed, his long, yellow hair 
streaming out from under his scarlet cap. 

“ O Paul, run ! Run, dear Paul ! ” moaned Rosa. 
“It is the young ban ! ” 

Then Paul knew that he had killed the falcon 
of the young prince, or ban , Stephen, the son of 
King Lazarus. But he stood his ground. “ I will 
not run,” he said. 

The prince looked at the group, saw the trem- 
bling Lado, saw the dead falcon, saw Paul’s stout 
cherry-stick, and, leaping from his pony, he rushed 
at the boy, white with rage. 

“ Thou dog ! ” he said, striking at Paul with 
his unstrung bow. “ How dar’st thou kill my 
falcon ? ” 

Paul answered as bravely as will any boy of 
spirit who has justice on his side and the weak 
under his protection. 

“ Strike me not, O Prince ! ” he said. “ I sought 
not to kill thy falcon, but to drive him off, lest he 
should tear and blind our fawn.” 

“Thou wolf! thou pig! thou dog!” screamed 
the prince, still furious at his loss ; and flinging 
aside his bow, he grasped his yataghan, or short 
scimitar, to cut the boy down. Rosa and Mira 
threw their arms around Paul, but he shook them 
off, parried the prince's stroke with his stick, and, 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 


153 


grasping his arm, said : “Take care what thou doest, 
my prince. My grandfather is Nicholas, one of the 
king’s foresters. ’T will go hard, even with thee, 
shouldst thou harm or kill me.” 

“ The vilas of the forest and the vilas of the 
mountain choke and smother thy grandfather ! ” 
said the enraged prince, and he would have struck 
at Paul again, but just then there came a clatter of 
horses’ hoofs and a gleam of shining armor, and 
through the trees at full gallop came the prince’s 
uncle, Milosh Obilitch, the chief captain, or voi- 
vode, of King Lazarus of Servia, followed by three 
mounted spearmen. A look of displeasure came 
into his face as he caught sight of the prince’s angry 
countenance and Paul’s defensive attitude. 

“ Come here, my prince,” he said sharply ; “why 
dost thou loiter there ? Even now thy father, the 
Tzar, is on the march to Kosovo, and waits but for 
his son.” 

“ I would be even with this vampire though the 
Turkish Tzar himself was at our palace gates, ” said 
the prince, wrathfully, and then he told his side of 
the story. 

“ But his falcon would have killed our fawn, O 
mighty ban” said Rosa — “ our fawn, Lado, dear to 
us as life.” 

The voxvode Milosh laughed a mighty laugh. 

“ Now, by the fist of the Cloud-gatherer,” he % 


54 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


swore in roughest Servian, “ ban I may be, and 
trusted soldier of the Tzar, but I am no judge either 
for man or child. Come, we waste words. Get you 
to horse, my prince. A gallop through Kushaja 
will cool your hot young head. Fawns and falcons 
must wait, for ‘ When the Tzar rides, all business 
bides.’ ” 

The prince stood in great awe of his mighty 
uncle. He therefore obeyed his command, though 
in rebellious silence, and mounted his pony with 
angry reluctance. 

“ As for you, little ones,” said the voivode , “you, 
too, must wait for justice with fawns and falcons. 
Here, Dessimir,” he said, turning to one of his 
spearmen, “ take these children to the cloister. 
Greet the Abbot Brankovicz for me, and bid him 
give these little ones safe-keeping till I return, God 
willing, from Kosovo. Then shall the king decide 
on the right of this affair, for surely I will not. 
Now, gallop, my prince ! To the Turk, to the 
Turk ! ” 

There is nothing more unlovely and unforgiving 
than a sulky boy balked of his revenge. The 
Prince Stephen followed his uncle as commanded, 
but there were black looks on his face and blacker 
thoughts in his heart. As for Paul, he was over- 
joyed at this fortunate end of an unlucky quarrel. 
He knew the kindly old Abbot Brankovicz, and felt 



156 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


that he and his sisters would be safer within the 
protecting walls of the great cloister than even in 
the strongest inner chamber of their grandfather 
Nicholas’ house, now shorn of all its men for service 
against the Turkish invaders. So he took his sis- 
ters by the hand, and, following the spearman Des- 
simir, they walked rapidly toward the gates of the 
old monastery, while Paul, as he looked at the 
giant form of the voivode Milosh, galloping far in 
advance, hummed softly to himself a popular Ser- 
vian song : 

“ ‘ Swaggering surely is no sin, 

Fair I face the battle’s din,’ 

Laughed old Peter Doi'tchin, 

The burly ban of Varadin.” 

The good Abbot Brankovicz, who was the su- 
perior or head of the cloister, at once understood 
the children’s case, and readily took them under his 
protection ; but, before they had passed within the 
outer gate, Paul’s eyes rested upon a sight that 
fired his boyish heart with the chiefest of boyish 
ambitions — the wish to be a soldier. For there, 
along the white road that passed through fields of 
growing maize and under arching forest-trees, the 
main body of the army of Servia wound over 
the mountains toward the rocky ridge that over- 
looked the “ field of thrushes ” — the fatal field of 
Kosovo. The fair June sunlight flashed on the 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 1 57 

fast vanishing array of steel-capped casques and 
bristling spears, and, just before the cloister gates, 
it touched with a glorious gleam the golden corse- 
let of King Lazarus himself, as, with his guards and 
seigneurs, he rode in the vanguard of his army. 
Tall, commanding, and gentle-featured, he glanced 
backward but once to the gray towers of the palace 
of his queen, and but once to the ivy-grown walls 
of the Cloister of the Seven Gates, from which in 
brighter days he had issued as Servia’s acknowl- 
edged king. The shadow of his dream seemed 
resting upon him — that dream in which ’t is said, 
the Lord offered him the kingdom of Servia or 
the kingdom of Heaven — an earthly or a heavenly 
realm; and the gentle Tzar made the better choice, 
for he said — so does the legend run — 

“ What, then, is the earthly worth ? 

It is but a day, 

It passeth away, 

And the glory of earth full soon is o’er ; 

But the glory of God is more and more.” 

And, as he looked, Paul saw the gentle king 
point with his “massy mace of gold” toward his 
advancing army. Then, bending his head to the 
priestly benediction, he passed the cloister gates, 
and, preceded by the gallant young Bocko Yougo- 
vitch, bearing the great purple standard of the 
cross ; with his son, the sulky Prince Stephen, riding 


i 5 8 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


at his bridle-hand ; with nobles in golden corselets 
and gleaming helmets following after ; with stout 
spearmen, and lusty curtal-axmen, and trusty arch- 
ers closing the glittering cavalcade ; up the steeps 
of the Scardus, and on toward the distant mountain 
passes, through the fair June weather, rode Lazarus, 
the last of the Servian kings to fight for his father- 
land aeainst the hosts of the Turkish invaders. 

Paul gave a great sigh as the cloister gates shut 
the inspiring sight from his boyish eyes. 

“ O that I were a man and a soldier ! ” he said. 

“Would to St. Sava that you were, little 
brother!” said the patriotic old abbot. “Servia 
needs every hand and every heart to guard the 
crown and save the cross from infidel robbers.” 

But childish desires quickly change, as childish 
hearts quickly open to each new joy, and, through 
the few days that followed, Paul found no lack of 
incident to blur the memory of shield and helm 
and brighten the joys of living pleasures. For the 
good monks of the monastery, too engrossed in 
prayers for Servia’s safety and in anxious and 
weary waiting for tidings from the battle to look 
after three harmless children, suffered them to 
roam at will, unquestioned and unchecked. So 
Paul and Rosa and Mira, merry-hearted, and think- 
ing little of a danger still distant, roamed alike 
through cloister and “ holy forest.” Paul could 


THE CLOISTER OE THE SEVEN GATES . 1 59 

recall many of the stories and legends that hovered 
about the old walls — legends of the saints it shrined 
and stories of the mighty Tzar who had honored 
and decorated it. These he could tell, with many 
boyish embellishments, to his wondering and ador- 
ing sisters. Together they knelt before the scarlet 
altar, or looked with curious awe at the dusty me- 
morials of dead kings or the relics of Servia’s saints ; 
together they stood before each of the seven gates 
in the cloister wall, rehearsing the stories of the 
kings, while Paul, crowned with maple-leaves and 
roses, and bearing a white wand of peeled maple, 
stood in turn under the shadow of each royal gate 
personating each of the seven kings, while Rosa 
and Mira wheeled and whirled before him in the 
fleet figures of the kolo , the favorite dance of Servia. 
When tired of the sunny cloister and the chapel 
walls, they would wander through the forest paths 
that, to them, led to fairy-land. 

No people in Europe is so greatly given to 
romance and superstition as are the Servians. But 
it is an airy and fanciful superstition, full of fairies 
and angels and lucky signs or unlucky omens. And 
Paul and his sisters were devoted believers in all 
the delicious mysteries of their home-land. To 
them every tree, and stream, and grassy mound 
had its attendant sprite — its fairy guardian, or vilci, 
as they called it ; witches and vampires sought to 


i6o 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


entrap heedless or wicked children, but would 
quickly disappear at the sound of a little prayer or 
at the sign of the holy cross. So they roamed and 
romanced through the monastery woodlands, seeing 
fairy forms in every waving bush, and weaving in- 
nocent fairy fancies around each sunny grotto and 
shady nook. But their favorite resort was the old 
moss-grown fountain close to the cloister walls. 
Here they would sit for hours under the shade of 
the mountain maples, watching the bubbling waters 
and speculating about the Lady of the Fountain — 
the White Vila of whom they had so often heard in 
the songs of old Ivan the bard — the White Vila who 
haunted the holy fountain, and appeared only when 
Servia’s glory or Servia’s distress called her forth. 

On the fifth day of their stay in the monastery, 
the 15th of June, 1389, the children came from the 
cloister woods, where they had been playing at the 
Fire-festival, Servia’s great June festival of St. 
John. It was a lovely afternoon, and they were 
wrapped in mystery and fancy, and therefore happy. 
For Paul had declared that, as he watched while 
the girls waved their tiny torches, he had thrice 
seen the sun stand still, as it was said to do on St. 
John’s feast, in honor of that worthy saint. The 
girls, of course, devoutly believed it too, and now 
the three approached their favorite maple-tree, sing- 
ing softly the Servian harvest song : 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. l6l 

“ Take hold of your reeds, youths and maidens, and see 
Who the kissers and kissed of the reapers shall be ; 

Take hold of your reeds, till the secret be told, 

If the old shall kiss young, and the young shall kiss old.” 

But the song died upon their lips as Rosa, sud- 
denly clutching Paul’s arm, pointed to the moss- 
grown fountain, and whispered : 

“ Oh, Paul ! Paul ! see there ! ” 

Paul looked as directed, and there, under their 
favorite maple, he saw a white-robed female figure, 
standing motionless. Her hands were clasped, 
her eyes were turned toward that part of the cloister 
where the last of the seven gates, the gate of King 
Lazarus, pierced the ivy wall. 

“ Rosa ! Mira ! ” he exclaimed, under his breath, 
“ ’t is she ! ’t is she — the White Vila ! ” 

The figure raised its clasped hands toward the 
cloister walls. “ O holy Elias ! O saintly Maria ! 
saintly Sava ! ” it said, “ guard thou the Tzar Laza- 
rus ; save thou the golden crown of Servia from 
the infidel Turk ! ” 

Now restrained by childish timidity, now drawn 
on by childish curiosity, Paul and his sisters grad- 
ually approached the apparition. Then Paul’s 
curiosity, as is often the case, got the better of his 
caution. Stretching far forward to hear the Vila’s 
words, he tripped and fell forward. At the sound 
the figure turned quickly. A beautiful but sorrow- 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


162 

filled face looked upon the children, and a tear- 
laden voice asked: “And who are you, O little 
ones, here in the cloister gardens ?” 

Rosa and Mira drew back in fear, but Paul 
answered stoutly enough, though a trifle shakily : 
“ The grandchildren of the good Nicholas, so 
please you,” he said; and then added: “ We are 
here, under safeguard of the holy abbot, for killing 
the falcon of the young ban , Stephen.” 

“The falcon of Stephen killed !” said the white 
figure. “ Oh, cruel omen ! ” 

“ But it would have killed our fawn, O White 
One ! ” said trembling Rosa — “ our fawn Lado, and 
Paul struck it down.” 

“ And we wait here till the king’s return,” said 
Paul. 

“The king’s return?” sadly echoed the White 
One. “ Ah, little brother, they who wait longest 
wait safest.” 

“ But will the king not return ?”. Paul asked, for 
the first time feeling that perhaps all the gleam 
and glitter of that soldierly array might go down 
in disaster. 

“Who shall say?” the figure replied. “This 
morning, when the dawn was dim, two black ravens, 
flying from Kosovo, perched upon the palace of the 
Tzar, and thrice they croaked and thrice they 
called.” 













AT KOSOVO 








CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


And Paul, full of Servia’s legends and omens, 
said sadly : 

“ When ravens croak and falcons fall, 

Low hangs the black .cloud over all.” 

“ The falcon has fallen, the ravens have croaked, 
the black cloud hangs low over the Seven Gates. 
See ! ” said the White One, and she pointed where, 
across the cloister wall, the heavy shadows lay 
across the gateways of the kings. 

“ But, can you not save Servia, O Lady White 
Vila ? ” Paul asked, appealingly. “ Old Ivan the 
bard has sung that the White Vila of the Fountain 
stands Servia’s friend in Servia’s need.” 

But, before an answer could be made, the cloister 
gates swung open with a sudden clang, and straight 
to the holy fountain dashed a black courser, flecked 
with foam, while on his back swayed a wounded 
rider — the courier of the Tzar. 

“ O Milontine!” cried the white lady, rushing 
toward him. “The Tzar, the Tzar?” 

The courier dropped from his saddle and kissed 
the lady’s robe. 

“ O true-eyed Queen,” he said, “ the sun of 
Servia is down ; dead is the great Lazarus ! ’ 

“Ah, woe is me!” she said; “the ravens, the 
falcon, and the black cloud did but show the 
truth ! ” 


THE CLOISTER OE THE SEVEN GATES. 165 

And as her fair head dropped in grief, Paul knew 
that the White Vila of the Fountain was “ the 
sweet-eyed Melitza,” the widowed queen of Servia. 

“ And my boy Stephen ? How died the young 
ban , Milontine?” she asked, raising her head. 

The courier hesitated. “ Hear the end, O 
Queen ! ” he said, and then he told in few but weary 
words the whole sad tale. He told how gallantly 
Servia’s army met the foe ; how bravely young 
Bocko guarded the purple standard of the cross ; 
how her brother, the voivode Milosh, cut his way 
through twelve thousand Turkish soldiers to where 
King Lazarus stood at bay, and fought the Turkish 
sultan himself ; how, when they were overpowered 
by numbers, Milosh and the king still fought until 
vanquished, and how even at his death-struggle 
the voivode s blade had cut down the sultan too ; 
how the new sultan, Bajazet, in his tent, slew the 
great Lazarus ; and, last of all, how Stephen — her 
son, the young ban, the hope of Servia — had early in 
the battle deserted to the enemy, told the Turks 
the secret of Servia’s array and the weakest spot in 
her battle-line, and now, in the tent of the Turkish 
sultan, saluted him as master and lord. 

Calm in face and feature, the queen waited till 
the last ; but when the story of her son’s treachery 
was told, she started to her feet. 

“ O sacred house ! ” she said, turning to the 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


1 66 

monastery walls, “ O Cloister of the Seven Gates ; 
from out whose holy doors have issued Servia’s 
kings ; at whose sacred altar the holy christening 
drops fell on my baby Stephen’s head, fall now and 
cover Servia’s wretched queen ! ” 

“ And doubt ye, doubt ye, the tale I tell ? 

Ask of the dead, for the dead know well ; 

Let them answer ye, each from his mouldy bed, 

For there is no falsehood among the dead ; 

And there be twelve thousand dead men know 
Who betray’d the Tzar at Kosovo.” 

So, under the ivy-covered walls of the Cloister 
of the Seven Gates, swooned the sweet queen of 
Servia ; so, on the fatal field of Kosovo, fell the 
noble Lazarus, the last of Servia’s kings ; so a 
traitor son betrayed a kingly father ; so Lado the 
fawn lost the crown of Servia. 

And now, why have I told this story of Servia’s 
sorrow, this tale of a far-off time, and of a land so 
little known to the boys and girls of to-day — this 
tale, half fact, half fable, as I have gathered it from 
the mists of romance that obscure the history of a 
fair land and of a gallant race ? 

Five hundred years have passed since the fatal 
day of Kosovo ; five centuries since the last of 
Servia’s kings fell, fighting bravely in her defence. 
Through all these years, with only now and then a 
gleam of light, a bright but transient flaring-up of 


THE CLOISTER OF THE SEVEN GATES. 167 

the spirit of liberty, the Turk has ruled as master 
of the land. But her deliverance at last came. In 
1868, when but a boy of fourteen, the young Milan 
Obrenovitch was acknowledged as tributary prince 
of Servia ; a young man of twenty-two he, in the 
year 1876, revolted against Turkish misrule and 
freed Servia from the long tyranny of her Moslem 
conquerors. On the 10th of March, 1882, he was 
proclaimed king of Servia, and, following the cus- 
tom of his ancestors, “ bore his crown forth into the 
world,’' amid the glad acclaims of an emancipated 
people, as King Milan the First, passing through a 
new gate cut in the time-stained, moss-grown wall 
of the old Cloister of the Seven Gates, under the 
shadow of which Paul and his sisters saw the White 
Vila of the Fountain five hundred years ago. 

But Servia’s ill-luck seems not yet to have en- 
tirely deserted her. For, since that day of deliver- 
ance, events have not gone well with the mountain 
kingdom. Her young monarch and the fiery Prince 
Alexander of Bulgaria have had a serious falling 
out that has tested the manliness and the power 
of each nation. Servian jealousy of Bulgaria and 
Bulgarian desire for extension have fostered these 
troubles. In November, 1885, the Servians in- 
vaded the territory of Bulgaria and a war was 
brought on, which only terminated in the triumph 
of Prince Alexander and the defeat and withdrawal 


CHI V A LRIC DA VS. 


1 68 

of King Milan. Since then the two young monarchs 
have amicably settled their differences and it is to be 
hoped that both these nations, now freed from the 
yoke of Turkish vassalage, will live together in 
peace and harmony, and undisturbed by omens and 
vilas , Turks or tyrants, will emulate in the future 
the glories of a distant past. 




VIII. 

THE STORY OF THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD, 


Together with the Doings and Diversions of AT aster Rauf Bulney and 
Mistress Margery Care 70. 


HOW RAUF BULNEY SPOILED HIS CRIMSON CLOAK. 

I T was a breezy, sunshiny day in the early English 
spring — the thirteenth of March, 1520. The 
hills and valleys of Buckinghamshire lay bleak and 
bare, with but scant signs of the verdure imprisoned 
beneath. The ancestral oaks that studded the lawn 
and bordered the roadway before the Hall swayed 
and shivered in the wind that swept the Chiltern 
hills and rocked the oaks and beeches of the Ayles- 
bury woods. With jacket thrown carelessly open 
and doublet disarranged, young Rauf Bulney raced 
across the roadway towards the falcon -house. His 
face was all aglow from the exercise that followed 
his endeavors to teach his fractious hobby, Roland, 



70 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


to leap the bars, while a reckless enjoyment of the 
brisk March breezes made him careless alike of a 
possible throat-distemper and of his customary 
trim appearance. 

Roland had shown so determined a disposition to 
shirk his duty and refuse the leap, and had arched 
his shapely neck so repeatedly in protest before 
the bars that Rauf had satisfied himself with two 
or three successes and now, boy-like, preferring va- 
riety, was on his way to test the merits of the cleanly- 
made little “ lanard,” or falcon, that his uncle had 
recently given him and which he bore upon his 
wrist. Just as he dashed across the roadway a 
rider, booted and spurred, passed him at full speed, 
his black horse flecked with foam, while on breast 
and back shone out in crimson and gold the well- 
known badge of his Grace the Cardinal. 

A courier from Hampton Court, though no un- 
frequent visitor at Verney Hall, was still ever an 
object of interest, and Rauf, weighing in his mind 
the opposing inducements of courier and falcon, 
decided for the courier and turned his steps tow- 
ard the Hall. At the foot of the terrace stood 
Dick Ricroft, the groom of the stables, holding the 
courier’s horse, that fretted and champed and called 
for Dick’s strongest hand to hold in check. 

Rauf wavered — the horse for the moment 
eclipsed the courier. 





THE COURIER OF THE CARDINAL 





1 72 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ You beauty,” he said, admiringly, “let me try 
a turn with him, Dick ?” 

“The saints forbid!” interposed the horrified 
Dick. “ Ride one of the Lord Legate’s horses, 
master Rauf ? ’T would be as much as all our 
heads are worth, and I ’ve no mind to lose mine yet. 
Besides,” he added, as he saw the spirit of rebell- 
ion growing in the boy’s eyes, “ the courserman 
rides on to Sir John Hampden’s on the hill, as soon 
as he has delivered his message to Sir Rauf and 
taken a hasty draught.” 

“ To Hampden Manor too ? Why, this must be 
some special mission. What ’s afoot, Dick ? ” ques- 
tioned the boy. 

“ Ah, you must needs find that out for yourself, 
Master Rauf,” replied the cautious Dick. “ ’T is 
some thing touching the king’s Grace and a journey 
to France.” 

“To France? O glory!” and the impetuous 
youth, aflame with a new excitement, bounded up 
the terrace and dashed into the great wainscoted 
hall, where, at the middle table, sat the cardinal’s 
courserman — a barley loaf and a “dish of wardens,” 
or baked pears, before him, his face half buried in 
the great pot of ale with which he was washing 
down his hasty lunch. 

“ Well, how now, how now, young hot-head?” 
came the deep voice of the boy’s uncle, and, check- 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


I 73 


ing his impatience, Rauf walked slowly up to where 
near the dais, stood his uncle, Sir Rauf Verney, 
papers in hand and a perplexed expression on his 
face. 

“ What ’s astir, sir ? ” asked young Rauf, with 
the privilege of a favorite, as he leaned against the 
dais and glanced into his uncle’s face. 

“ Bide a bit, sir malapert,” said his uncle, beneath 
his voice, and then, as the courier rose from the 
long table and wiped the ale from his forked beard, 
he said : “ Art refreshed, good master yoeman ? ” 

“ Fully so, thanks to your Worship,” replied the 
courserman, “and I must now hasten on to Hamp- 
den Manor.” 

“ Say to your master, the lord cardinal,” said Sir 
Rauf, “ that the commands of the king’s Highness 
shall have my proper obedience,” and, courteously 
conducted to the door and down the terrace, the 
courserman sprang to his saddle, doffed his bonnet 
in adieu, and the black horse sped down the road- 
way like an arrow. 

“ Well, Anne ? ” was all that Sir Rauf said as he 
came back to the dais and looked to his wife for 
counsel. 

“ ’T is the king’s command and the cardinal’s 
wish. I suppose it must be done,” said Lady Anne 
Verney, smoothing the folds of her satin kirtle. 

“ ’T will cost a pretty peck of angels,” said Sir 


l 74 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Rauf, somewhat ruefully, as he stroked his long 
brown beard. 

“ But the honor of England and the Verneys, 
Sir Rauf ! ” interposed the Lady Anne. 

“ Yes, yes, I know,” said her husband, “ needs 
must when — the king wills, I suppose. But as to 
my following,” he added, musingly ; “ ‘ ten persons 
well and conveniently apparalled and horsed’” — 
then, suddenly, “ Rauf, boy, would’st like to go to 
France ?” 

Respectful silence in the presence of one’s elders 
was enforced by some thing more than words in 
those early days, and Rauf, though inwardly chafing 
at being so long kept in the dark, dared not ask 
for information. So, when his uncle’s quick ques- 
tion came, the boy as quickly answered with : 

“To France ? O uncle ! — when ? ” 

“That means yes, I suppose. Here, my boy, 
make test of Master Bolton’s teaching on this 
paper,” and he handed Rauf a billet on which 
ran the address : 

“ To our trusty and well-beloved Sir Rauf Ver- 
ney , knight .” 

Thanks to the careful tuition of Master Bolton, 
the chaplain at the Hall and a well-furnished scholar 
from the Oxford schools, Rauf could at least spell 
out enough of the billet to understand that it was a 
summons from the Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chan- 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


l 7 5 


cellor of England, through the hand of Thomas 
Ruthal, Bishop of Durham, and Secretary of State, 
commanding “Sir Rauf Verney to await ttpon the 
kings Highness with a following of ten able and 
seemly persons well and conveniently apparalled 
and horsed ; the same Sir Rauf Verney to appear , 
as to his degree and honor belongeth , at the camp 
in the marches of Calais } between Guisnes and 
Arde , in the month of May , and at the time of 
meeting between the kings Grace and the French 
king!' 

All the boyish curiosity, the love of excitement, 
and the delights of anticipation, that lived in the 
heart of our young English Rauf of three and a 
half centuries ago, even as they do in the equally 
impetuous natures of our English and American 
boys of to-day, were stirred to their depths as he 
took in the meaning of the royal summons, and he 
turned a joyously expectant face to his uncle. 

“Yes, yes,” responded Sir Rauf Verney, with a 
smile to his nephew’s unasked question. “ ’T is a 
royal command and admits of no refusal. And 
you, Rauf Bulney, page, shall go ‘ well and con- 
veniently apparalled ’ as squire to the body in the 
following of Sir Rauf Verney, knight.” 

“ But just where are Guisnes and Arde, uncle ?” 
queried the boy. 

“ Tut, tut, lad ; shall we jog your truant memory 


y6 


CH1VALRIC J)A YS. 


or Master Bolton’s lagging work ?” said the knight. 
“ They lie, both, in the marches of Calais, in the 
valleys between our English town of Calais and 
the glorious field of Agincourt. This Guisnes is a 
town and castle in English territory, and Arde is a 
town and castle in French territory. They stand 
scarce two leagues removed from each other. 
Though how these castles will serve for conven- 
ient and proper lodgings for the kings’ Highnesses 
passes my fathoming. I mind me that on my last 
return from Flanders, now two years since, I went 
with my Lord Eitz water over the castle of Guisnes 
and found it wretched enough — its moat dry and 
weedy, its battlements dismantled, its keep ruinous 
and crumbling. And as for the French castle, they 
made equal poor report — the town long since in 
ruins, the castle desolate and impaired, its fosse 
choked and useless, its donjon untopped, its walls 
torn with breaches.” 

“ A sorry place for a royal interview,” said Lady 
Anne, “ but will not due care be taken to make 
them presentable ? ” 

“ Trust the lord cardinal for that,” replied Sir 
Rauf. “ Where so lavish a hand commands, small 
doubt is there as to great results. His Grace’s 
courserman tells me that nigh twelve hundred men 
— masons, bricklayers, carpenters, joiners, sawyers, 
plasterers, decorators, broiderers, and gold-workers 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 1 77 

— have been despatched to Sir John Petchie, the 
deputy of Calais, under orders to my Lord of 
Worcester, the commissioners, and the chief 
artificer.” 

“ But what is it all for, uncle — this interview be- 
tween the king’s Highness and the king of France ?” 
asked young Rauf, who with ready ears had drunk 
in all his uncle’s words. Ignoring Sir Rauf Ver- 
ney’s long explanation, half politics, half rumor, and 
all glorification of his liege and king, such as he, 
born courtier, gallant soldier, and true Englishman, 
could not help giving, we may confine Rauf’s ac- 
quired information to a few words. 

Three young men, Henry Tudor, of England, 
aged twenty-eight, Francis d’Angouleme, of France, 
aged twenty-five, and Charles von Hapsburg, of 
Spain, aged nineteen, at that day swayed the des- 
tinies of the Christian world as monarchs of their 
respective countries. The imperial throne of Ger- 
many, then known as “ the holy Roman Empire,” 
becoming vacant in 1519 by the death of the Em- 
peror Maximilian, these three young kings, each 
with distinct but varying claims, asserted their right 
of election to the vacant throne. On the 18th of 
June, 1519, the electors of Germany rendered their 
decision, and the youngest of these three competi- 
tors, himself scarcely more than a boy in years, 
ascended the imperial throne as the Emperor 


1 78 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Charles the Fifth — the mightiest monarch in 
Christendom. Henry of England, aware of the 
hopelessness of his claim, had already withdrawn 
from the contest, but his neighbor, Francis of 
France, brilliant, chivalric, handsome, and brave, 
but royally self-willed and impetuous, chafed under 
his defeat and sought to weaken the power of his 
successful rival by an alliance between those two 
inveterate enemies, France and England. Thomas 
Wolsey, the son of an honest butcher of Ipswich, 
was now Cardinal Archbishop of York, Legate of 
the Pope, and Lord Chancellor of England, mighty 
in influence with his master the king, feared and 
flattered by all the courts of Europe. He received 
with approval the propositions of Francis looking 
to an interview between the kings of France and 
England, and, gaining the consent of Henry, 
sought to make this interview such an occasion 
of splendor and ceremonial as should delight their 
majesties and gratify his own love of display. By 
it, too, he hoped to increase his power over both 
courts, and thus advance him toward the prize he 
coveted, the throne of the Pope, then the highest 
attainable dignity in the Church and the world. 

To make this royal interview, then, imposing in 
its ceremonial and splendid in the magnificence of 
its display, all England and all France labored and 
lavished, struggled and spent, managed and mort- 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 179 

gaged, until, as one of the old chroniclers expresses 
it, “ many lords bore thither to the meeting their 
mills, their forests, and their meadows on their 
backs.” 

So much for the political history. To young 
Rauf Bulney, however, as he watched the prepara- 
tions that for two months kept the household at 
Verney Hall in continued bustle and action, the 
desires of kings and the ambition of cardinals went 
for but little. For him two realms were excited, 
two nations disturbed, in order that a fresh and 
healthy young English boy of fifteen years, Rauf 
Bulney by name, might go to France in grand style 
and feast his eyes on glorious sights and royal pro- 
fusion. 

At last the eventful time arrived, and in the early 
morning hours of Wednesday, the sixteenth of May, 
1520, Sir Rauf Verney, with Master Rauf Bulney, 
his squire, Master Bolton, his chaplain, his color- 
man, archers, and bill-men — all picked from the 
very flower of the Verney tenantry, “ as tall and 
hardy men as might be,” resplendent in new liveries 
and displaying the Verney arms, — bade good-bye 
to Lady Anne and the Hall, and while roadways 
and forest were sweet with the breath of an English 
spring, and hawthorns and hedge-rows were vocal 
with the songs of robin and sky-lark, the Verney 
following passed over the Chiltern hills and through 


i8o 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


pleasant English meadows to London first, and 
thence on to Dover. Not the least happy in that 
train was our friend Rauf, with a pardonable pride 
in the possession of three rich suits and a happy 
consciousness that he looked quite as nicely as he 
felt. 

At Dover, the straggling, stuffy little seaport town 
of three hundred years ago, they found a great crowd 
of nobles and gentlemen with their attendant trains ; 
while the valley of the Dour and the slopes of the 
chalk hills were white with tents and gay with 
streamers. Here, by orders of the lord chief mar- 
shall, the Earl of Essex, Sir Rauf Verney’s follow- 
ing was joined to that of the Earl of Dorset. Sir 
Rauf himself was ordered to attend the cardinal at 
the immediate reception of “ the elect king of the 
Romans,” otherwise the Emperor Charles the Fifth. 
For that enterprising young monarch, knowing full 
well the excessive courtesy and winning manners 
of the French king, sought to gain an advantage 
over his rival by a prior meeting with Henry of 
England. And so, hurrying post-haste from Bar- 
celona, with “ only sixty ship and the queen of 
Arragon,” he met the English king at Dover be- 
fore he had crossed to France. 

“ Is our king’s Grace then so wondrous great that 
this mighty emperor fain must sue to him ? ” Rauf 
asked his uncle when he heard the summons, even 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. l8l 

his boyish enthusiasm for his king being unable to 
fully grasp this wonder of the “ Monarch of Chris- 
tendom ” doffing his bonnet to an island prince. 

Z' ‘ Ah, my lad,” replied his thoughtful uncle, “the 
king of the Romans sees far and shrewdly. An 
alliance between our king’s Highness and him of 
France would threaten a mighty breach in King 
Charles’ great dominions. Besides, our noble king 
of England, so my lord bishop of Worcester writes 
from Rome, ‘ is in great reputation in Christendom,’ 
and none know this better than the king Catholic. 
See now, my boy, what kingship does for a man. 
This young King Charles is scarce four years your 
elder ; but, ah ! it ’s an old, old head on green 
shoulders.” 

So reasoned the cautious courtier, and so young 
Rauf accepted it, and, next morning, stood for 
hours at the door of his lodging to see this boy 
emperor ride by with the English king on the way 
to the shrine of Thomas a Becket at Canterbury — 
“the more to solempne the feast of Pentecost,” 
says the old chronicle. What Rauf really saw was 
a spare young man of medium height, with pale 
face and heavy under jaw, with hooked nose and 
small, irregular teeth, plainly dressed as compared 
to the magnificence of England’s kingly king, by 
whose side he rode. But what Rauf could not see 
in that quiet face was the deeper purpose that even 


182 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


then spoke of great possibilities, as fitted the man 
who for forty years thereafter held an imperial 
sceptre in an imperious grasp. 

Four days passed and then, the emperor’s visit 
over, the king of England with his queen and 
court — above five thousand persons and nearly 
three thousand horses, — on the thirty-first of May, 
crossed from Dover to Calais. Standing in the 
bow of the “ Marye Glorye,” or “ Maglory,” one of 
Miles Gerard’s stoutest hoys — a small sloop-rigged 
vessel used for coasting work, — Rauf watched with 
interest the embarkation. The white chalk-cliffs 
of Dover shone in the morning sun, the foam- 
capped waters of the bay and channel glistened 
and sparkled, while a host of small craft, bright with 
pennons and colors, scud before the wind out of 
Dover harbor, dipping and bobbing over the choppy 
waves towards the opposite port of Calais. In the 
midst of the fleet, gay with the fluttering decora- 
tions of St. George’s Cross, the Tudor dragon and 
the Tudor rose, sailed the royal transport, the 
“ Katherine Pleasance.” 

Just as the “Maglory” rounded in behind the 
“ Katherine,” a sudden puff of wind and a choppy 
sea drove her hard against the stern of the royal 
vessel. There was a bump and a vigorous shock, 
and Rauf saw a young girl, whom he had already 
noticed as one of a merry group of ladies, topple 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


I»3 


over with the shock and fall from the deck of the 
“ Katherine ” into the waters beneath. A shriek from 
the ladies on the king’s vessel, a sudden wearing off 
on the part of the “ Maglory,” and then, impetuous 
as ever, as heedless of the consequences as of his 
satin doublet and his crimson cloak, his gold- 



embroidered hose and his boots of Spanish leather, 
off from the bow of the “ Maglory” jumped Master 
Rauf in aid of the drowning girl. A strong stroke 
and a ready eye, which much practice in his home 
streams had given him, stood him well in need. 
Stout ropes and sturdy arms trailed over the lee of 
the “ Katherine,” and the girl and her rescuer were 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


184 

soon on deck, the one limp and faint from her 
peril, the other well enough in body but sorely 
damaged as to his gala dress. 

“ A trim young gallant and a brave ! Whom 
have we here as the savior of our fair but unsteady 
maiden ? ” asked a deep, rich voice, and, looking 
up, Rauf found himself in the midst of a gayly 
dressed group of lords and ladies, the chief of whom 
was a man of tall and commanding appearance, 
well built and stout almost to heaviness, with 
pleasant face, with fresh and ruddy countenance, 
with short, golden beard and kindly smile, the 
very picture of health, imperiousness, and royal 
grace — Henry the Eighth, King of England, “the 
most goodliest prince that ever reigned over the 
realm of England,” as loyally chronicles quaint old 
Edward Hall. 

The courtier blood of the Verneys lent grace 
and homage to Raufs low obeisance, with which he 
accompanied his answer to the question of the king. 

“ I am Rauf Bulney, may it please your Grace ; 
nephew and squire of the body to Sir Rauf Verney, 
knight, in my Lord of Dorset’s train.” 

“ Ha ! of our old friend Verney’s stock,” said the 
king. “And do you thus incontinently dive with 
equal speed to rescue the perishing, even be they 
not so fair to see as our sweet maiden, Mistress 
Margery — eh, young sir ? ” 




% 



RAUF AND MARGERY. 


185 





C-HIVALRIC DA YS. 


1 86 

Again bending low, Rauf replied to the royal 
banter : 

“ My sponsors have taught me, my Liege, that 
the true knight showeth due courtesy to all alike/’ 

“ A right knightly answer, is it not, my lords ?” 
said Henry, highly pleased. “ And who, pray, 
after your good uncle and the Lady Anne, may 
your guiders be, my boy?” 

“ Master Bolton, an Oxford scholar, is our chap- 
lain, your Grace.” 

“ Ha ! himself a pupil of our worthy Dean Colet 
— rest his soul ! One of the new learning too. 
We have high hopes of the youth of this present 
England whose sponsors and preceptors are such 
as yours. But, body of me ! ” said the king, hast- 
ily, as his eye caught the little rills that coursed 
down Rauf’s shivering but respectful legs, in crim- 
son and violet tides, “ here stand we chattering, 
and there stand you a-chattering as well. Good 
Master Cary, take this young springald to our 
yeoman of the robes and see him suitably appar- 
alled. Thereafter will we request the lord cardi- 
nal, with due regard to my Lord of Dorset and Sir 
Rauf, his uncle, to add him to the file of our special 
pages. He is a right-mannered and well-favored 
lad.” 

Rauf was shrewd courtier enough to make no 
reply to this promise of advancement, beyond the 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 187 

customary low bow, and he, therefore, kept quiet 
as to his extra suits of gay clothing. “ He who 
would rise must needs know when to hold his 
tongue,” his uncle had taught him, and just here 
seemed the golden opportunity to put this precept 
to the test. 

On deck once more, dressed in a rich suit of 
crimson and violet, blazoned with the Tudor rose, 
Rauf received with boyish sheepishness, not un- 
mixed with his native courtesy, the well-spoken 
thanks of Mistress Margery Carew — a trim and 
sprightly little lass of near his own age, whose 
blue velvet gown, with its lining of crimson tinsel, 
well set off her fair Saxon face. She was the little 
daughter of Sir Richard Carew, a knight of Surrey, 
placed by her father among Queen Katherine’s 
gentlewomen, under the protection of Lady Gray. 

“ And let me tell you, master page,” said Lady 
Gray, as she warmly thanked Rauf for his ready 
aid, “ a sorry loss of a sprightly lass would have 
fallen upon us had you not so quickly taken to the 
water.” 

So, in exchange of pleasant words and compli- 
ments, of questions and explanations, the crossing 
to the French shores was quickly made, and all 
too soon, as it seemed to Rauf, the ramparts of 
Calais lay abeam. By high noon all were disem- 
barked and, for the four days following, Calais 


1 88 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


blazed with all the semi-splendors of a dress re- 
hearsal. Every available foot of ground around 
the old city was taken up for lodgings. Tents and 
huts and temporary booths encircled the walls 
until, as Rauf said, “ it might almost be the time 
of great King Edward over again.” 

“ And how ? ” queried Margery. 

“ Why, so Master Bolton tells me,” explained 
Rauf, “ when good King Edward besieged Calais, 
now nigh two hundred years ago, he built all 
around its walls, much as we have done, houses and 
dwelling-places, and encompassed it round about 
with a new town, in which he vowed to live until 
Calais should be starved out.” 

“ Our Lady grant that we may not be starved 
out, though,” protested Margery, whom the breezes 
of the Surrey hills had blessed with a healthy ap- 
petite.” 

“ Nay, before we shall starve,” said Rauf, “ I 
will, as did King Edward, single out six notable 
burghers of this town and hold them as hostages 
for your tortured appetite.” 

“ And I,” said gay young Margery, “ like the 
good Queen Philippa, will down on my knees be- 
fore my lord and beg him to spare the honest 
burghers’ lives.” 

“ Which I will gladly do,” retorted Rauf, “ pro- 
vided my lady will ask their lives of me, as also 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


did the good Queen Philippa, for the sake of the 
son of the Blessed Mary and for your love of me ! ” 
and then they both looked a little sheepish and 
quickly turned to watch the brilliant passing of 
Sir Henry Marney and the kings guard. 

“A rare and gallant sight, are they not, Mar- 
gery ? ” said enthusiastic Rauf. 

And a rare and gallant sight in truth were 
these archers of the king’s guard, “ two hundred of 
the tallest and most elect persons, with doublets, 
hosen, and caps,” as the old record states, their 
red coats rich with “ goldsmith’s work, and the 
king’s cognizance,” the Tudor rose in broidered 
gold, shining on breast and back, their long-bows, 
of finest English yew slung at the shoulder, and 
their velvet quivers filled with cloth-yard shafts 
tipped with brightest feathers. 


ii. 

HOW THE KINGS MET IN THE GOLDEN VALLEY. 

For four days Rauf and Margery enjoyed the 
restless life at Calais, frequently meeting as the 
queen’s household and the king’s retinue mingled 
in the work of preparation, and then, on Mon- 
day, the fourth of June, all being ready for the 
ceremony of the interview, the whole court de- 
parted for the appointed ground before the Castle 
of Guisnes. 


190 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


A long train of moving color, the royal cortege, 
wound across the low flat plain known as the 
marches of Calais, the borderland between English 
and French territory. Everywhere brilliant cos- 
tumes and gorgeous trappings met the eye : the 
glitter of gold, the flash of silver or of burnished 
steel, the dazzle of jewels, and the wave of count- 
less plumes. With lords and ladies superbly mount- 
ed ; with high officials and their trains, gay in suits 
of velvet and gold ; with priests and prelates richly 
gowned ; with grooms and yeomen, guards and 
litter-men, henchmen and footmen, in liveries of 
scarlet and russet velvet, white and yellow satin, 
Milan bonnets, and cloth of gold ; with great Flem- 
ish horses, hung with velvet liveries ; with coursers 
and palfreys gayly caparisoned ; with hooded fal- 
cons and hounds in leash, the flower of England’s 
nobility following their king and queen swept on 
towards the grand lodgings that had been prepared 
for them on the barren fields of GuisneS. 

“ Prepare yourself for a wondrous sight, Rauf,” 
said his uncle, riding up to the boy as he cantered 
by the side of the litter in which rode Lady Gray 
and Margery. “ Lord Dorset tells me that so 
mighty a work has been done by the artificers and 
pioneers that there is nothing in Rome or Venice 
to equal the sight.” 

Just then they gained the crest of an unwooded 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 19 I 

ridge, and an exclamation of delighted surprise 
sprang to the lips of young and old as they 
looked upon the scene spread out before them. 
To their right lay the once shabby little town of 
Guisnes, now royally resplendent with banners and 
pennons, colored hangings and cloth of gold, its 
castle so repaired and refitted as to make it almost 
habitable and certainly picturesque. But, most 
marvellous of all, there rose upon the castle green 
the triumph of the architect and the decorator, the 
wonder of an age which brought to the decorative 
art the enthusiasm of religion and the luxuriance of 
an uncurbed fancy. 

Imagine a grand palace of stone and brick and 
wood, its outer walls covered with gayly painted 
cloth — a palace larger than the New York post- 
office, more nearly the size perhaps of Memorial 
Hall, in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, — its roof 
bright with gilding, painted in antique pattern. On 
every side projected oriel (or bay) windows and 
curious glazed towers, called clerestories, their posts 
and mullions thickly overlaid with gold. Great 
castled gates guarded the entrance, their niches 
filled with gilded statues of warriors and heroes, 
and, flanking these, rose an embattled tower, 
pierced with loop-holes and flying the royal arms. 
From this warlike entrance there rose in gradual 
ascent to the embowered portals of the palace a 


192 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


wide walk, or “ hall-pace,” lined with “ images of 
sore and terrible countenances ” gleaming in sil- 
vered armor. Over all streamed the royal flags — 
the red dragon of Cadwallon, the collared grey- 
hound, the white swan, and St. George’s crimson 
cross mingling with the golden blazonings of the 
Tudor badge of the rose, “ large and stately ” in 
every conceivable device. Grouped around and 
beyond this royal lodging the sun gleamed on the 
white canvas of nearly 2,800 tents, gay with the 
fluttering flags, the decorations, arms, and “ cogni- 
zance ” of the lordly occupants. On the palace 
lawn a great gilt fountain, running three ceaseless 
streams of claret, spiced wine, and water, freely 
quenched the thirst of all comers, while facing it 
four golden lions upheld, on a pillar wreathed with 
gold, a blind Cupid armed with bow and arrows. 

The royal cortege swept down the grassy slope, 
the embattled gates swung open wide, and, amid 
the blare of trumpets and the boom of welcoming 
artillery, Henry the Eighth and his court entered 
into fairyland. 

And fairyland indeed did Rauf and Margery find 
it as, day after day, they wandered through the 
marvellous structure, finding ever some new mag- 
nificence of decoration, some gilded mystery of re- 
bus or device. They strolled through passages 
ceiled with white silk and hung with silks and 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 1 93 

tapestries and braided cloths, “ which showed like 
bullions of fine burnished gold ” ; they lingered in 
chambers and state apartments decorated with 
panels rich in gold and carving, their ceilings 
studded with roses frescoed on a field of fine gold ; 
they tested the luxuriance of the chairs and divans 
of rare Turkish work covered with golden tissue 
and rich embroidery, and studied with admiring 
eyes the hangings of silken tapestries and cloth of 
gold, “ of great and marvellous splendor.” The 
children’s eyes indeed often wearied of the display 
and they were not sorry to rest, now and then, 
from all this magnificence, in the dim corridors of 
the “winding alley covered with verdure,” that 
connected the palace with the old castle of Guisnes. 

“ It is more wondrous even than the golden palaces 
of Morgan le fay and Queen Cinderella, of which my 
nurse tells,” said Margery, during one of these rest- 
ing spells. 

‘ ‘ N ever was fairy palace grander. N ever was such 
magnificence,” replied the sight-tired Rauf. “ Why, 
even the poorest quarter of it is a habitation fit for a 
prince.” 

On the afternoon of their first day at Guisnes they 
stood as part of a courtly company, while through 
the embattled gate-way passed, surrounded by a 
gallant retinue of guards and gentlemen superbly 
dressed, the one man who was the originator and 


i94 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


the director of all this magnificence — Thomas Wol- 
sey, the cardinal, Lord-Chancellor of England, and 
legate of the Pope. Mounted upon a barded mule, 
whose trappings were of crimson velvet, whose head- 
stalls and studs, buckles and stirrups, were of pure 
gold, rode the lord-cardinal — a heavily built man 
now nearly fifty years of age, impressive in appear- 
ance, handsome in face, eloquent in speech, whose 
years of power had brought with them an imperious 
and autocratic manner that displeased his equals, but 
held the people in awe. He was magnificently 
dressed in a robe of crimson velvet, heavily figured, 
over which was drawn a loose vest or “ rochet ” of the 
finest lace ; upon his head he wore the red cap of a 
cardinal, with large hanging tassels. As his brilliant 
retinue, in their rich costumes of scarlet or crimson 
velvet and cloth of gold, passed down between 
the fluttering tents, escorting the cardinal to the 
French camp to announce the arrival of England’s 
royalty, Rauf, gazing in admiration at the splendid 
and imposing scene, said to Margery : 

“It looks like a great field of gold, does it not, 
Margery ?” 

“ Say rather of cloth of gold,” said delighted 
Margery, as with her girlish love of finery and per- 
ception of detail, she watched the glittering throng. 

The quick ear of the king caught the comments 
of the children. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 195 

“ Well said, well said, little ones ! " he broke in 
enthusiastically. “ What say you, my lords," he con- 
tinued, returning to his retinue, “ shall we not take 
advisement from the words of these younglings ? 
Let us know this ground hereafter as the Field of 
the Cloth of Gold !” 

And the “ Field of the Cloth of Gold " it has re- 
mained in history to this day. 

“Well, what about the French camp, Roger?” 
asked Rauf that evening, as he met Roger Adam- 
son, formerly falconer at Verney Hall, but now archer 
of the King’s guard. 

Roger put down the silver cup of hippocras with 
which he was refreshing himself at the golden foun- 
tain. 

“ Ah ?’’ he said, “ a rare sight it was, Master Rauf, 
though, truth to say, I was feasted so plenteously 
that I fear I shall never know an appetite again. 
Two bow-shots from the French camp, which stands 
across a beggarly little stream, there met us a gal- 
lant company of lords and gentlemen and men-at- 
arms, bravely arrayed. We marched through their 
hies until, after the lord-cardinal had passed, they, 
too, joined their ranks to ours, and so, on to the 
French camp." 

“ Are the French lodged as royally as we, 
Roger ? " asked Rauf. 


196 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


“ Ay, fully so, though in different guise. Their 
camp takes in both the town and Castle of Arde, 
royally fitted, and, between the castle and the little 
stream I spoke of, there are nigh five hundred tents, 
very rich, and covered with bright stuffs, and flags 
and devices, and cloth of gold.” 

“ And the kings house ? ” 

“ The French kings mightiness is lodged both in 
the castle and in a great pavilion, of which there is 
one central tent, and three lesser ones joined to it. 
They are hung with cloth of gold from crown to base, 
and on the peak of the centre pavilion is a statue of 
St. Michael, of great height and magnificence, and all 
of gold, saving a rich blue mantle powdered with gold- 
en jleur-de-lys . In his right hand, the image holds 
a dart, and in his left a mighty shield bearing the 
arms of France, and all so glistering with gold that 
one may scarcely look on it.” 

“ Well, go on, go on! ” said impatient Rauf, as the 
archer paused a moment. 

“ Give me breath, give me breath, Master Rauf,” 
pleaded the good-natured archer. “ Well, when we 
reached the gates of the king’s lodging, we passed 
through long files of princes and gentlemen, archers 
and Swiss halberdiers, all brave in splendid liveries, 
and then, lo, there comes out to us the French king, 
bonnet in hand, to greet my lord cardinal.” 

“ Bonnet in hand ? ” queried Rauf, incredulously. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 1 97 

“ Ay, bonnet in hand, said I,” protested the archer ; 
“ bonnet in hand comes the French king to welcome 
our king’s chancellor. And the trumpets and the 
hautboys and the clarions sounded out melodiously, 
while the artillery boomed such a welcome, you 
could scarce hear aught else. Then, when my lord- 
cardinal’s grace had dismounted, the French king 
embraced him joyfully, and they went, with the lords 
and princes into the king’s pavilion, while, as for. me, 
— well, Master Rauf, I was laid hold upon one side 
by a French archer, and on the other by a Swiss 
halberd-man, and though we could fathom naught 
of each other’s lingo, why we could feast together, 
an’d that we did so well and royally, that here 
am I, back again in camp, with but little stomach, 
I can tell you, for salted meat and strong beer 
again ” 

“ And I am to go with the king’s train, in two 
day’s space, so I too can make test of this hospitality,” 
said Rauf, with glowing anticipations. 

The next day witnessed the return visit of the 
“ harbingers,” or envoys, of the French king, many 
lords and princes, “ dressed in cloth of gold and well 
accoutred.” Among them rode the Archbishop of 
Sens, the Sieur Bonnivet, Admiral of France, and the 
Lord-Chamberlain, the Sieur Tremouille. They were 
received with great display, with music and artillery 
.and feasting, and then, on Thursday, the seventh of 


198 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


June, came the great event, so long looked forward 
to, the formal meeting between the kings. 

“ Oh, if I could but go,” sighed Margery, as she 
watched the elaborate preparations for the inter- 
view. 

“ Would that you might go, Margery,” said Rauf, 
pondering. “ If now I could but strangle one of my 
brother pages and put you in his place ! — There ’s 
young Sir Hubert Darrell, for instance. He ’s an 
uncomfortable little comrade, and if I could only buy 
him off with a meal of pippins and wine as big as his 
appetite, and smuggle you into his suit of silver bro- 
cade and crimson velvet — why, off we would go to- 
gether to the interview. You would look charming 
in crimson and silver.” 

“ St. Frideswide forbid ! ” exclaimed the scandalized 
Margery. “ When I go to a ‘ maskalyne/ Master 
Rauf Bulney, I will go honestly, and not in boy’s 
apparel. Suppose they should surprise me in Sir 
Hubert’s brocade and velvet ! Then would I be 
burned like that La Pucelle or Joan of Arc, who 
essayed the same. My faith, I have no liking for so 
hot a fire. No, no, Rauf, my day will come when 
the queen’s ladyship meets the French queen.” 

“ Yes, I suppose it is not to be thought of,” said the 
boy, ruefully, loth to give up his brilliant plan. “ But 
what a pity you are not a boy, Margery ; — why, no 
it s not, though,” he changed suddenly “ I ’d far 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


199 


rather have you as you are — what old Rawlie, our 
minstrel sings : 

‘ A may den fay re 
With sonnie hair 
All garmented with light * ; 

and never mind, I shall tell you all about it when I 
return.” 

Later in the afternoon, some two hours before the 
time of vespers, a gallant train awaited, before the 
palace gates, the signal for the interview. 

“ Boom ! ” went the English culverin from the 
castle of Guisnes. 

“ Boom ! ” responded the great French falcon from 
the castle of Arde ; and before the echoes died away 
from the intervening hills, Rauf had taken his place 
in the royal train, and, the English footmen, step for 
step, solidly leading the way, the glittering company 
moved on towards the pavilion in the Val Dore. 
Preceded by his archers of the guard, in doublets of 
crimson and scarlet cloaks, blazoned with the Tudor 
rose, with nobles, and prelates, knights and gentle- 
men, pages and guards, in richest attire of velvets, 
and damasks, and cloth of gold, rode King Henry of 
England, imposing in appearance and royal in mien. 
He was dressed in a magnificent suit of silver damask,, 
thickly ribbed with cloth of gold, his bonnet studded 
with jewels and topped with waving plumes. The 
trappings of his horse were of velvet and cloth of 


200 


CHIVALRTC DA YS. 


gold, thickly overlaid with fine gold and mosaic work. 
Before him rode the old Marquis of Dorset, bearing 
the sword of state, and behind him came nine hench- 
men, in cloth of tissue, their horses bright with gold- 
scaled harness. 

On the crest of a small hill overlooking the valley 
where stood the pavilion, the English retinue halted 
and saluted with the blare of trumpets and the dip of 
banners, the French resting on the opposite hill. 

“ Tarra-tarra-tarra-ta ! ” sounded the trumpet blast, 
and down the hills, on either side, swept the French 
and English provost-marshals to clear the ground, 
crowding the great masses of people back upon the 
surrounding hills. Rauf, close in attendance upon the 
king, saw the looks of anxiety and distrust on the 
faces of some of the English lords, as they noted the 
superior numbers of the French retinue. 

“ Sir,” hastily broke in the impetuous Lord Aber- 
gavenny, pressing close to the king, “ you be my 
king and sovereign, wherefore, above all, I am 
bound to show you the truth, and to stay for no one. 
Look ye to the French party. I know them. I 
have been among them. They are more in number 
— ay, double so many as be in your Grace’s train.” 

“ Sire,” counselled the more discerning Earl of 
Shrewsbury, “ whatever my Lord of Abergavenny 
sayeth, I myself have been there, too, and, mark me, 
the Frenchmen be more in fear of you and your 



1 'V 






lifw 1 




fttowTriB 




Jt 

wMmA 


THE MEETING OF THE KINGS. 

(From a stained-glass window by Oudinot, of ParP, in the residence of W. K. Vanderbilt, Esq., New York.) 



202 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


subjects than your subjects be of them. Wherefore, 
if I were worthy to give counsel, your Grace should 
march forward.” 

“ So we intend, my lord,” said the intrepid Henry. 
“ Trumpeter, sound the advance ! ” and following 
the trumpet-call came the old-time “ Forward, march ! ” 
— the “On afore, my masters!” — from the officers 
of arms, while in close array the whole company 
passed on to the position assigned them, midway 
down the slope. 

There was a brief silence, the stillness of expecta- 
tion, while two nations long divided watched and 
waited. From the pavilion in the valley below, 
gleaming with its rich covering of cloth of gold, 
streamed the flags of France and England. There 
was a stir, a parting of ranks, and forth from the ar- 
ray of dazzling color, of waving plumes and banners, 
of scarlet and cloth of gold, down either hill-slope, 
amid the shouts of spectators and the burst of mar- 
tial music, “ so that there never was such joy,” rode 
the English Henry and the French Francis. Sud- 
denly, each monarch gave his horse the spur, and' 
galloped towards each other, “ like two combatants 
about to engage, but, instead of putting their hands 
to their swords, each put his hand to his bonnet.” 
With uncovered heads and courteous salutations, 
still on horseback, they closed in an embrace of 
welcome ; dismounting, they embraced again, and 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


threw their jewelled bridles to their masters of the 
horse ; then, arm-in-arm, the two sovereigns entered 
the gilded pavilion, the people cheered, “ the trum- 
pets and other instruments sounded on each side so 
that it seemed a paradise,” the lord-cardinal and 
Bonnivet, admiral of France, followed their lieges 
through the portals of the pavilion ; with hearty and 
repeated salutations of “ Bons amys, Francoys et 
Angloys ! ” the two companies intermingled, and the 
great event so long anticipated and discussed was an 
accomplished fact. 

Our friend Rauf, enthusiastic in his delight at his 
really being a part of all this grand and gracious dis- 
play, walked gayly among the broken ranks, and 
aired his broken French with an impartial and reckless 
sincerity. 

“ And what think you they talk of in the pavilion, 
uncle ? ” he asked, as with boyish curiosity he glanced 
towards the curtained entrance of the tent, now 
closely guarded by archers and halberd-men. 

“ Of more than you can fathom, my boy,” 
answered Sir Rauf. “ Of treaties and alliances, of 
possible wars and possible marriages, for there is 
some talk afloat of a betrothal between our little 
Princess Mary and the Dauphin of France.” 

“ A marriage ? ” echoed incredulous Rauf. “ Why, 
uncle,” — thinking tenderly of Margery — “ they are 
but children ; the Princess Mary is but a baby, and 
the Dauphin, surely not much older.” 


204 


CHIVALRIC BA YS. 


“ The betrothal of two nations, my boy, is, as you 
will learn in time, of more moment than the ages of 
two children. But trust our king’s highness,” con- 
tinued his uncle. “ He whom the king of the 
Romans seeks and the king of France sues will not 
pledge faith and friendship without careful thought.” 

And Sir Rauf was right. For after nigh twenty 
days of comradeship, of feasting, and of pageantry, 
the king of France knew no more of the real inten- 
tions of Henry of England than did he before the 
meeting of the kings in the pavilion of the golden 
valley. 

As, a half hour later, Rauf waited in ready attend- 
ance upon King Henry, his sturdy boyhood seemed 
to have taken the fancy of the French king ; for, 
turning to his brother prince, Francis asked with 
that easy grace and pleasant manner that won so 
many to him, “ My dear brother and cousin, lend me, 
I pray you, yon courtly young squire, that I may 
show our demoiselles of France a worthy sample of 
your English lads. I will return him well and suit- 
ably accompanied before nones to-morrow.” 

“ Why take him thus, fair cousin,” responded 
Henry heartily, “ and may his manners prove more 
to your liking than can his halting French. Com- 
port yourself as though you were hostage for Eng- 
land’s youth, sir page,” he said to Rauf, “ and shame 
not the teaching of your tutor nor your English 
home.” 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD . 20 $, 

So Rauf went to the castle of Arde in the train 
of the French king, and, on the following day, after 
his return from his visit, he regaled Margery with 
the story of what he had seen, and piqued her curi- 
osity with certain sly references to the beauty and 
graciousness of the French maidens. 

“ But what manner of man is the great king of 
France, Rauf ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, a right royal prince,” responded the boy en- 
thusiastically ; “as page of honor, I rode close to 
his stirrup on the way to Arde, and he oft questioned 
me about my home and my duties and my pets, and 
— Oh, Margery, he told me how to snare a hare 
after the French fashion, and how to hood a lanard, 
wild to fly ! 

“ Well, never mind that, Rauf — how did he look,, 
what did he do, what did he wear ? ” asked Margery,, 
more interested in fashions than falcons. 

“ Oh, I studied him well, believe me, for I knew 
you would question me. He is tall and well-built,, 
but not so stout as our gracious king ; broad in the 
shoulders and large in the feet, with a brown face 
and short dark beard, long nose, and bright, blue 
eyes ; haughty, but pleasant ; gay and gracious, 
and, withal, a smile and a voice that make you feel 
as if you must do as he desires, willy-nilly, and 
then, Oh, Margery, his dress ! ” 

“ Finer than our kings, Rauf? ” asked the girl. 


206 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“Well,” said cautious Rauf, halting between loy- 
alty and admiration, “ not less glorious, believe me. 
Over a cassock of gold frieze, he wore a splendid 
mantle of cloth of gold, wonderfully fine in texture, 
and sprinkled with jewels. The front and sleeves 
were studded with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and 
large hanging pearls, while his velvet bonnet was set 
with precious stones and capped with gallant plumes. 
Before him marched the Constable of Bourbon, bear- 
ing a naked sword, and also his master of the horse, 
with the state sword of France, powdered with gold 
fleur-de-lys ; and at rear and van marched a great 
company of princes and lords and gentlemen,' with 
archers and men-at-arms, more grandly dressed than 
I can say.” 

“ And what did you at the camp, Rauf? ” 

“ Oh, I was most graciously received and royally 
lodged. The great pavilion of the king is more 
goodly to see than I can describe. It is as high as a 
tower, of wonderful breadth ; outside, all cloth of 
gold, and, inside, cloth of gold frieze. The hangings, 
too, and the furnishings are most marvellous, and the 
ceiling is like to the blue sky, full of golden stars 
and all the signs and devices of the heavens.” 

“ Well, what more? ” as Rauf paused for breath. 

“ Oh, but give me time to think, Margery. Well, 
after the feast came a wonderful maskalyne, with the 
French lords in all manner of curious and mirthful 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 20 J 

costumes, and the dames and demoiselles — the last 
in especial — beautiful beyond compare.” 

“ Oh, Rauf! ” 

“ Ah, ah ! for French maidens, I mean. There was 
not one, of course, in all the French camp to go 
before the fair maid of Surrey — sweeter than the 
sweet white-thorn blossom on her banks of Thames,” 
said the gallant Rauf. 

“ The blessed St. Valentine spare us,” cried Mar- 
gery, lifting her pretty arms in mock protest. “ If 
this comes of your French visiting, master page, the 
more you stay at home, the better for quiet English 
maids.” 

“ But she seemed to like it nevertheless,” thought 
Rauf ; for compliments have been just as sweet to 
hear, and maids have been just as protestingly 
pleased to listen through all the six thousand years 
of. this gray old world’s pilgrimage. 

hi. 

HOW MARGERY CAREW GOT HER GLITTERING CHAIN. 

“ And as I thrust the presse among, 

By froward chaynce mine hoode was gone, 

Yet for alle that I stayde not long, 

Till to the kynge’s lysts I was come,” 

trolled out Shurland, the king’s jester, adapting 
one of Master Lydgate’s ballads to suit the case, 


208 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


as with Rauf and Roger the archer, he pressed 
through the crowd of guards, retainers, and sight- 
seers, on a visit to the field set apart for the tour- 
nament. Great preparation had been made for this 
occasion. The lists were pitched on English ground, 
on a fairly level ridge, midway between the two 
camps. Rauf had already received some schooling 
in jousting, and had even “ run at the tilt ” in a mild 
way with Parker, the armorer, at Verney Hall. He 
found, therefore, much to interest him in the progress 
of the work which was to make this trial of strength 
— almost the last of the tourneys — the magnificent 
pageant that so well became the lavish and chivalric 
princes, under whose orders it was arranged. 

“ Forasmuch as God has given the cherished 
treasure of peace to France and England” — so the 
“ Ordonnance de Tourney ” ran — “ to prevent idle- 
ness and sedition , sixteen gentlemen of name and 
blood — eight French and eight English — for the 
honor of God and the love of their ladies , intend to 
maintain these articles ” — and then follow the elabor- 
ate rules of the combat. 

“ Why this fosse, Master Shurland ? ” asked Rauf 
as the three crossed a drawbridge and passed within 
the field, “ surely none here would force the lists.” 

“ Why, then, except to keep back those who most 
desire to see,” replied the jester. “ Are you so young 
in statecraft, good page, that you have not yet 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 209 

learned that whoso wishes the loaf gets the crust, 
and that he who works the hardest and waits the most 
patiently to see a triumph, can only view it across a 
ditch or through a rampart of halberds ? ” 

Nine hundred feet in length and three hundred and 
twenty feet across, on ground well and properly pre- 
pared , stretched the great lists. The field was an open 
space, after the English fashion, and not a counter, 
or double list, as were many French tilts. Around 
the enclosure ranged high galleries, hung with 
choicest tapestries, for the privileged spectators, and 
to the right, in the place of honor, were glazed cham- 
bers for the two queens, bright with colored hangings 
and cloth of gold. At the foot of the lists Rauf 
stopped in wonder before a mass of gold and color, 
grouped under a great triumphal arch of velvet and 
damask and cloth of gold. 

“ What can this be ? ” he asked in amazement. 

“ This,” said the jester, learned in all heraldic 
matters, “ is the forest of fallacy, the vegetation of 
rank ; — and rank enough has it oft proved when 
planted by unkingly kings, or fostered by unknightly 
knights. This, young master inexperience, is the 
knightly ‘ perron ' — the tree of nobility.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, I know it now,” broke in Rauf ; 
“ ’t is the tree on which will hang the shields of 
challengers and answerers.” 

“ Softly, softly, sir page,” said the jester, “ crowd 


210 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


not so rudely on this tree of name and blood. See> 
here twine the royal branches, high above those 
of baser birth ; here is the hawthorne of our king’s 
highness of England, there the raspberry of him of 
France.” 

And a curious combination indeed was this “ tree 
of nobility,” covering a space of near one hundred 
and thirty feet — its trunk a mass of cloth of gold, 
its foliage of green silk, its flowers and fruit of silver 
and Venetian gold, while the mock earth in which it 
was embedded was a great mound of green damask. 

Late on that Saturday afternoon came the rival 
trumpet-peals and there streamed into the lists the 
royal challengers and their attendant trains of heralds 
and pursuivants and guards to attach the kingly 
shields to the hawthorne and the raspberry, in chal- 
lenge to the field. With much excess of courteous 
language, but with much dispute, nevertheless, as to 
which shield should have the highest position, now 
France’s herald and now England’s argued and con- 
tested. “ But finally,” says the chronicle, “ the king 
of England caused the French king’s arms to be 
placed on the right and his own on the left, equally 
high,” and so the momentous question was settled. 

On the next morning, a fair Sunday in the early 
June, as Rauf and Margery knelt at mass in the 
gorgeous chapel attached to the English palace were 
they at all different from our boys and girls of this. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


2 


more practical age if their thoughts left the stately 
service and wandered, in accompaniment to their 
eyes, about that marvellously magnificent apartment, 
awed and wondering ? For this royal chapel was 
the great cardinal’s peculiar pride. To fitly decorate 
it he had sent over sea “ the best hangings, travers, 
jewels, images, altars, cloths, etc., that the king has.’’ 
Thirty-five priests, in robes of cloth of gold pow- 
dered with rich red roses and strewn with gold and 
jewels, assisted by many singing boys and acolytes, 
conducted the services, whilst everywhere the glitter 
of gold and jewels, the flash of costliest hangings and 
rarest decorations, more than regally adorned this 
royal chapel of a king. 

And now Margery’s share in the festivities began, 
for there came that fair Sunday afternoon, “ glorious- 
ly apparelled ” and brilliantly attended, the courtly 
King Francis, to dine with the queen of England. 
“ And, O Rauf,” reported the excited little dame, 
“ he knelt beautifully on the ground, bonnet in hand, 
and saluted the queen and her ladies. Yes, and he 
even kissed small little me, and called me a ‘ fayre 
damoyselle,’ sir, and praised my bloom and color, 
and wished he could transplant so sweet an English 
flower to the gardens of good Queen Claude.” 

“ All of which you believed, I suppose. O 
Margery, Margery ! take the advisement of one who* 
has mingled much with kings, and — ” 


2 12 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ Have done, have done, master impudence,” cried 
Margery, “ and tell us what you saw at Arde.” 

And then our youg sightseers tried to outvie each 
other in tales of what they had seen, for Rauf had 
attended King Henry on his visit to the French 
queen at Arde. He told of Queen Claudes 
diamond-sprinkled robes, of the great golden dinner 
services, of the feast and of the wonderful side-dishes, 
which were leopards, and salamanders, and other 
beasts bearing the French arms ; of the entrance of 
Montjoy, the French herald, with his great golden 
goblet and his cry of “ Largess to the most high, 
mighty, and excellent Henry, king of England ; lar- 
gess, largess ! ” and of the room where they went 
after the feast, “ adorned with tapestry of cloth of 
gold, and carpeted with crimson velvet.” All of 
which Margery capped with equally wonderful tales 
of English ceremony and French courtliness. And 
so they supped full of wonders. 

The next morning, Rauf was up betimes, eager 
and anxious for the hour to arrive that should open 
the tournament. 

“ Give you good-day, Master Rauf,” said a cheery 
voice, and, looking over against the great statue of 
the English archer, which, with bended bow, fronted 
the castled entrance, Rauf saw his old friend Roger, 
the archer of the guard. “ A fair and rare day for 
the tilts, if but this wind will down.” 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


213 


“ And will it not die off, think you, Roger ? ” asked 
Rauf, anxiously. 

The archer eyed the flying scud of clouds rather 
dubiously — * 

“ Blow the wind never so fast, 

It will lower at last." 

he said, repeating an old English couplet. “ Which is 
about all the comfort I can give you, Master Rauf, 
so we must e’en make the best of it. But they say 
the king’s hignesses will both run at the tilt to-day. 
Heard you aught of this, Master Rauf ? ” 

“ Ay,” said Rauf, proud to be able to disclose 
* state secrets, “ ’t is even so ; as challengers both, 
they hold the lists against all comers. And whom 
•think you will run the course most valiantly, Roger ? ” 
The archer pointed to the significant legend that 
streamed from the more gigantic archer above him : 
“ He whom I back, wins ! ” 

“ Could I make that legend sure,” he said, “ I 
know full well who would come off victor ; but — 

‘ Where all are well mounted and matched, 

None knoweth whose pate will be patched.’ ’’ 

“ ’T will be a rare sight, though, will it not,” said 
Rauf. 

“ Ay, and a brave one, too,” said the archer, 
“though I may not see all the sport. Twelve fel- 
lows of our guard, with twelve of the French king’s 
archers, guard the entrance to the lists.” 


214 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Dinner over, Rauf’s and Margery’s restless long- 
ings changed to active realization, as with banners 
fluttering and music “ sounding most melodiously,” 
on chargers gorgeously trapped, on litters, or in 
chariots covered with cloths of gold and silver and 
emblazoned with the royal arms, the king and queen 
of England passed with a gallant company out of the 
palace gates and on to the waiting lists. Soon after 
came the French retinue, “ equally glorious.” The 
galleries quickly filled with a great company of richly- 
dressed lords and ladies from both the camps, while 
all the hills around were black with the crowds that 
had flocked from all quarters to the great spectacle. 
Rauf and Margery both sat in Queen Katherine’s 
gallery, absorbed in watching the glittering trains of 
knights passing and re-passing in the lists beneath 
them, or in picking out from the throng the great 
personages with whose faces they were familiar. 

“ That is the Constable of Bourbon, Margery ; 
greatest in France, next the king,” said Rauf. 
“ And who is that with him ? ’T is one of our 
English knights, but his face is turned away from 
us.” 

“ Auctor pretiosa facit ,” read Margery, spelling 
out the legend that was blazoned on the shield of the 
unknown. 

“ Why sure, then, ’t is the Duke of Buckingham,” 
said Rauf, learned in the knights’ emblazonments. 





* From a window designed by M. Oudinot of Paris, in the house of W. lv. 
Vanderbilt, Esq., New York. 




215 



21 6 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


“ And see now, as he turns his face this way, it is the 
Duke indeed,” and then they both looked with ad- 
miration at these two knights as they passed : both 
princes of the blood, both young, chivalric, haughty, 
and brave ; both destined soon to be adjudged 
traitors to the kings in whose trains they now glit- 
tered ; both soon to die, — the one by the headsman’s 
axe on Tower Hill by the command of Henry of 
England ; the other, while gallantly scaling the walls 
of Rome, in open revolt against Francis of France. 

“ And that, Margery, is Madame, the queen- 
mother of France,” said Rauf, pointing to a royal 
lady, who, in a diamond-circled robe of black velvet, 
leaned over the gallery-front to return the courteous 
salutations of the lords of Buckingham and Bourbon. 
Margery looked with awe at this great lady, Louise 
of Savoy, whose wish was law to her son, the king 
of France ; the royal lady to whom, years after, the 
captive king was to send that famous message 
from the field of his defeat : “ Madame, there is 
nothing in this world left to me but my honor and 
my life.” 

Many other notable persons did the children study 
in youthful criticism or admiration. Queen Kather- 
ine’s plain but not unlovely Spanish face, “ not hand- 
some, but very beautiful in complexion,” as wrote the 
cautious Venetian ambassador, lighted up with some 
thing of a smile as she talked with the young Queen 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 217 

Claude of France, the daughter of the stately house 
of Valois. Near the queens, too, stood the gay- 
faced and sprightly maid of sixteen, the Lady Anne 
Boleyn, before many years to be raised to the dan- 
gerous and to her fatal eminence of queen of Eng- 
land. 

And while in broken French or through inter- 
preters the ladies in the galleries courteously talked 
together, down in the lists was the bustle and excite- 
ment of preparation. Soon the trumpets sounded 
and the heralds proclaimed the tournament opened. 
With volt and demivolt, with charge and thrust, with 
clash of swords and splintering of lances, the royal 
challengers, Henry of England and Francis of France, 
with their supporters, held the lists in friendly com- 
bat against the bravest knights of England and of 
France. For twelve days, save when the wind, as 
Roger the archer feared, blew too boisterously for 
the lances to be couched, the jousts continued, inter- 
mingled with other sports and feats of strength or 
skill. In all such contests as they bore a part, the 
kings of France and England, so says the loyal chron- 
icler, “ did marvels, breaking spears eagerly and well 
acting their challenge of jousts.” Between the times 
of tourney came other frolics, lavish in display and 
royal in profusion. Wrestling matches and archery 
contests, dancing, and music, and song, “ maskalynes 
and mummeries ” at either camp helped on these joy- 


2 1 8 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


filled days. How greatly Rauf and Margery delighted 
in all this pleasure and pageantry, let any boy or girl 
of to-day who passes two blissful hours at some great 
show, some “Gigantic Aggregation of Wonders” 
determine ; let them consider how much enjoyment 
is crowded into their two hours of spectacle, and 
then think, calmly if they can, of two weeks of such 
excitement and display ! 

Into the lists one bright afternoon thronged the 
“ venans ” or “ comers,” to run a tilt with the “ ten- 
ans ” or “ holders.” Riding down the field to the 
“ tree of nobility,” each knight rang his lance upon 
the black and gray shield, thus signifying his readi- 
ness to joust with the challengers. One English 
knight, still bolder than the rest — Sir Richard Jer- 
ningham, Knight of the King’s Chamber — reaching 
to the top of the “perron,” struck with his lance’s tip 
the white and silver shield of the king of France. 
Then “ holders ” and “ comers ” rode the one general 
course of lance to lance, and this shock over, they 
fell back, while the single champions rode before the 
barriers. 

“ For whom fight you, Sir Richard Jerningham, 
good knight and true ? ” demanded Mont St. Michel, 
the herald of France. 

“ For the honor of God, the glory of England, and 
the love of the little lady, Mistress Anne Boleyn — 
our rose of England blooming at the court of France,” 

















ARMOR OF HENRY OF ENGLAND.* 


* From a window designed by M. Oudinot of Paris, in the house of W. K. 
Vanderbilt, Esq., New York. 


219 




220 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


and the gallant Sir Richard bent to his saddle-bow 
in salute to the fair young maiden whom he thus 
championed. 

“ And for whom fight you, Francis, king of 
France?” demanded the English herald, Garter 
King-at-arms. 

And the kingly knight, not to be outdone in 
courtesy to the bright young girlhood of England, 
glanced toward Queen Katherine’s gallery, and 
made instant answer : “For the honor of God, the 
glory of France, and the love of the Mistress Mar- 
gery Carew — the tenderest blossom in the train of 
our sister of England.”* 

Margery’s beaming face, which had been stretched 
eagerly forward in the excitement of seeing and 
listening, flushed furiously as she drew back in sudden 
confusion, while the “ Oh ” of surprise broke from 
her parted lips. Then she looked quickly to the 
lists again, as the shouts of the heralds : 

“ St. George for England ! ” 

“ St. Denis for France ! ” 

rang bravely out, and the trumpets sounded the 
charge. 

With visors closed and lances fully couched, the 
knights spurred across the field ; but, just as they 
approached the shock, Sir Richard’s horse stumbled 
slightly and threw his lance out of aim. With 
knightly courtesy King Francis broke his own couch 

* See frontispiece. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


221 


and raised his lance upright, and then, with friendly 
salutations, both knights passed each other without 
crossing. Turning on the course once more, they 
galloped across the lists, and with equal speed and 
with steady aim, “ full tilt ” they spurred to the shock. 
Tang ; tang ! the lances struck and splintered fairly. 
Sir Richard’s stroke met the guard of King Francis’ 
silver shield, while the lance of the king rang full 
against Sir Richard’s pass-guard, or shoulder front. 
But though Sir Richard struck “ like a sturdy and 
skilful cavalier,” the shock of his antagonist was 
even more effective. For, as the record states., “ the 
French king on his part ran valiantly,” Sir Richard’s 
horse fell back with the shock, his rider reeled in 
the saddle, and, so says the chronicle, “ Jernyngham 
was nearly unhorsed.” The broken lance shafts 
were dropped from the hands of the knights, and 
the heralds declared Francis, king of France, victor 
in the tilt. 

An hour later Sir Richard came to Queen Kather- 
ine’s gallery, King Francis accompanying him. Then, 
in accordance with the rules of the tourney, Sir 
Richard, as the knight “ who was worsted in the 
combat,” with due courtesy and a deep salute, pre- 
sented to the blushing Margery a beautiful chain of 
gold, large and glittering, as “ the token to the lady 
in whose service the victor fights.” And King 
Francis, smiling, said : . 


222 


CII1VALRIC DA YS. 


“ And I too must claim my guerdon from this lady 
mine. Will the fair Margery be our guest at Arde 
to-night ? ” 

Margery looked to Lady Gray, who said : 

“ With pleasure, if so it please your highness.” 

“ And here shall be your trusty squire, our old 
friend — and yours too, I ’ll wager — Master Rauf 
Bulney,” and the king placed his hand pleasantly on 
the boy’s shoulder. 

So to the French camp at Arde went Rauf and 
Margery, and there they were feasted “ right royally,” 
and that night, too, as they were preparing for a 
“ maskalyne,” there came up a fierce gale of wind, 
and the great central pole of the royal pavilion 
swayed and shivered, bent and broke before the 
blast, and the mass of painted canvas and cloth of 
gold, of gilded ornaments and quaint devices, to- 
gether with the great statue of St. Michael, came 
down to the ground in a mighty and utter wreck. 
And the king rejoiced greatly over the safety of all 
his train, but mostly over his little English guests, 
who, with the Lady Anne Boleyn, had luckily escaped 
all harm. 

IV. 


HOW THE QUEENS DINED WITHOUT EATING. 

Early next morning Rauf, who lodged in the 
Sieur de Montmorency’s tent, was awakened by 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 223 

a touch upon the shoulder, and, opening his eyes, 
was startled to see the king bending over him. 

“ Arise, sir page,” said Francis, with a reassuring 
smile ; “ I am mightily vexed with all this suspicion 
and ceremony that, it seems, must needs attend all 
our interviews with your king, and I am minded to 
give our brother of England a surprise this morning. 
None save the Count of Saint Pol and the Sieur de 
Montmorency accompany me, and you shall help us 
force the camp.” 

Dressing in much wonderment and snatching a 
hasty bite at a cold pasty, Rauf joined the king 
and his two companions. With neither guards nor 
heralds they rode across the valley and up the 
slopes to Guisnes, through the bright beauty of that 
early June morning, and “ mightily astonished ” the 
English warders gathered on the castle bridge. 

“ Surrender ye, surrender ye, my brothers, to the 
might and power of France,” said the king gaily, as 
he rode among them. “ Lead us straight to the 
chamber of our cousin of England.” 

“ Sir, he has not yet awakened,” said the bewil- 
dered Marlond, the provost. “ Pray, your majesty, 
rest awhile until I summon his Grace the Earl of 
Essex to conduct you to the king’s highness.” 

“ Earl me no earl, and king me no kings,” pro- 
tested Francis laughingly. “ I seek to awaken not a 
king’s highness, but mine own good brother and 


224 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


comrade, Henry of England ; so, then, on to the 
chamber, master Bulney,” and following Rauf, with 
the bewildered English officials still in the rear and 
“sore perplexed,” Francis walked rapidly to the 
door of the king’s chamber, knocked, and without 
further ceremony, walked in. 

“ Never,” says the chronicler, “ was man more 
dumbfounded than King Henry ! ” 

“ Brother,” he said, “ you have done me a better 
turn than ever man did to another, and you show 
me the great trust I ought to have in you. I yield 
myself your prisoner from this moment, and I 
proffer you my parole. Sir page, my jewelled col- 
lar.” 

Rauf detached from the open casket near the bed 
a magnificent collar of gold and jewels, worth, it is 
said, some fifteen thousand angels, or nearly #40,000 
of our money. 

“ Take this, my brother,” said the king ; “ take it 
and wear it this very day for the love of your 
prisoner, Henry of England.” 

“ Honor for honor, ransom for ransom,” said 
Francis, and detaching from his own dress a bracelet 
said to be worth thirty thousand angels (nearly #80,- 
000), “ wear this,” he said, “ for me, and with it wear 
close to your heart the dear love of your brother, 
Francis of France.” 

“ Now will I rise and attend you,” said Henry ; 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 225 

and to Rauf he said, “ sir page, let our gentlemen of 
the chamber be called.” 

“ Not so,” said Francis, “ ’t is brother to brother 
and peer to peer. You shall have none other 
chamberer than your loving Francis, and as I thus 
warm your shirt and help you to your dress, may 
the warmth of our brotherly love melt down all the 
barriers of suspicion and ceremony that our lords 
would fain rear between us.” 

And so with jovial talk and many a merry jest 
was this memorable and uncommon kingly visit 
prolonged and enjoyed to the dismay and bewider- 
ment of the ceremonious courtiers of both the camps. 

Next day, after the jousts were ended, there was 
tried a bout between the English wrestlers, and then 
a match between the archers, in which latter the king 
of England took a part, “ for,” says the French 
chronicler, “ he was a marvellous good archer, and a 
strong, and it was very pleasant to see him.” These 
sports over, the two kings entered the pavilion to 
rest and refresh themselves. Here Francis, admir- 
ing the splendid physique of King Henry, said to 
him : 

“ You are mightily well built, brother. Truth to 
say, the Chevalier Giustinian made no unfair report 
of you to his master, the Doge of Venice.” 

“ And what said the worthy chevalier ? ” queried 
Henry. 


226 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ He said,” replied Francis, “ that my lord, the king 
of England, was much handsomer than any monarch 
in Christendom, very fair and well proportioned, a 
good musician, a capital horseman, a fine jouster, a 
hearty hunter, a tireless gamester, a mighty archer, 
and a royal hand at tennis.” 

“ Ay, tennis is a royal game,” was Henry’s only 
comment. 

“ The chevalier protested,” went on the French 
king, “ that it was the prettiest thing in the world to 
see you at tennis, with your fair skin glowing 
through a shirt of the finest texture.” 

“ Ha! well,” said the flattered Henry, “ the 
Chevalier Giustinian was a courtier-like and wily 
ambassador, and, you, too, my brother, are, I fear, a 
sweet-tongued flatterer.” 

“ Not so, not so,” responded Francis. “ I am 
leal and true comrade to the man, be he king or 
courser-man, who is as tightly built and as strong in 
'heart as is Henry of England.” 

Then it was that Rauf, in astonishment, saw his 
gracious sovereign seize, with a practised hand, the 
collar of my lord, the king of France. 

“Come, my brother,” said Henry, “let us try a 
fall.” 

With arms entwined around each other’s body in 
a grip of iron, with feet planted, and with every 
muscle strained, the royal wrestlers swayed now this 




i 



B 

u 

< 


o 

£ 

M 

H 
c r 
W 
04 

£ 

< 

> 

c4 

H 


in 

O 

£ 

o 

> 

H 


H 


e* 



228 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


way, and now that, in their trial of strength. There 
came one or two well-made feints at throwing, and 
then suddenly, so the record says, “ the king of 
France, who was an expert wrestler, tripped up the 
heels of his brother of England, and gave him a mar- 
vellous somerset.” 

“ Revenge, revenge ! I am not yet beaten ! ” 
cried the fallen prince, springing to hisr feet, but then 
came the summons to supper, and the wrestle of the 
kings was over. 

The fortnight of pageantry and pleasure ended all 
too quickly for Rauf and Margery, and for many an 
older participant, but the end came at last, as come 
it must, to all good times. And now it was Saturday, 
the twenty-third of June, the feast of the vigil of 
St. John, kept in memory of that early pope of 
Rome, imprisoned and martyred by Theodoric, the 
Ostrogoth. As fitted both a high-feast day of the 
Roman church, and the last hours of an occasion in 
which that church had played so prominent a part, 
the lord-cardinal announced a solemn mass to be 
sung by both the French and English priests. So, 
in the great lists, which for twelve days had rung with 
the clash of sword and lance, the shouts of contes- 
tants and the cheer of victory, on a great platform a 
gorgeous chapel was erected, hung with cloth of gold 
and splendid draperies, while altars and reliquaries 
shone with gold and gems. The oratories of the 



c 

w 

fc 

o 

w 

‘t* 

>—4 

H 

O 

P 

co 

*— 4 

a 


o 


co 

a 

ttl 

W 


w 

a 

H 

cu 

a 

Q 

w 

04 

o. 

4—4 

f4 


*» 

W 

a 

H 

co 

U 4 

a 

£ 


H 

erf 

W 

a. 

X 

W 

2 ; 

< 


c 

* 

< 


y? 

< 

£ 

o 

a 

£ 


Q 

£ 

< 

a 


M 

CJ 

£ 

◄ 

erf 

a 

t&4 

o 

o 

3 

a 


o 

c» 

Cl 


GAVE HIM A MARVELLOUS SOMERSET. 



230 


CIIIVALRIC DA VS. 


kings and queens were royally furnished, and chairs- 
of-state, under canopies of cloth of gold, stood on the 
platform for the cardinals, bishops, and prelates of 
England and France. Dressed in soft camlet robes, 
blood-red from head to foot, the cardinals and their 
trains of priests and dignitaries moved in slow pro- 
cession from the chapel to the chairs. Then, amid a 
solemn silence, in the presence of a vast multitude 
that thronged the galleries and stood without the 
lists, the great Cardinal Wolsey, changing his red 
robes for his richest vestments of crimson velvet 
and cloth of gold, opened the service, in which the 
English and French priests and chanters took alter- 
nate parts. The kings and queens knelt at the al- 
tars, and all the curious forms of service that were 
the usages of that age of form in religion, as in arms, 
were carefully observed. 

Right in the midst of it all, as the rich strains of 
the “Gloria in excelsis ” filled the air, there rose a 
loud noise of roaring and hissing, and lo ! high above 
the French camp at Arde appeared the figure of 
“a great salamander or dragon, four fathoms long 
and full of fire.” 

Margery started up in alarm and clutched the 
sleeve of Rauf, himself not all unmoved at the 
strange apparition. 

“ Oh, look, look, Rauf ! ” she said, beneath her 
breath, “ what is it ; what is it ? ” 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 23 1 

But even Rauf’s cup of wonders was filled to 
overflowing, and he simply gazed, speechless. 

“ See, see, it comes this way,” he said, involunta- 
rily ducking his head, as the fiery monster, cleaving 
the air, headed towards them and then “ passed over 
the chapel to Guisnes as fast as a footman can go, 
and as high as a bow-shot from a cross-bow.” 

Surprise, indecision, dismay, and fear were seen 
on many faces, and a sigh of relief broke from count- 
less watchers as the last vestige of the fiery trail van- 
ished from the sky. 

“ Oh, what a monster ! ” said Margery ; “ what 
could it have been, Rauf ? ” 

The boy plunged down into the very depths of his 
boyish wisdom, but found no fitting explanation, and 
both the children turned questioning faces to Sir 
Rauf Verney, who, with Lady Gray, was watching 
their astonishment with evident amusement. 

“ Rest easy, my little ones,” he said. “ ’T is no 
portent nor omen, but only one of those conceits in 
fire brought from Italy for the French lords. It can 
harm no one. Even now it lies all dead and black- 
ened on our camping ground at Guisnes.” 

And so Rauf and Margery saw their first fire- 
works, then an almost unheard-of wonder in Europe. 

Below in the lists, but little disturbed by the fiery 
dragon, of which they had probably had warning, the 
royal worshippers went on with the service, and a 


232 


CHIVALKIC DA YS. 


Latin sermon on the blessings of peace closed the 
mass. Then came the great state dinner served in 
the lists, the kings sitting in one chamber beneath a 
golden canopy, the queens in another, the cardinals 
and prelates in another, and the lords and ladies in 
still other apartments. Rauf and Margery, with the 
robust appetites of healthy children, dipped like 
young epicures into ail the dainties, and richly en- 
joyed the feast, pitying meanwhile the enforced 
courtesies of royal ceremonial, which would not per- 
mit the kings and queens to take a mouthful, but 
forced them to pass the time in polite conversation, 
while the inviting courses came and went untasted. 

“ ’T is glorious to see the queens’ highnesses, and 
be so near to them ; is it not, Rauf ? ” asked happy 
Margery. 

“ Ay, that it is,” he answered, glancing toward 
the queens’ table, where stately conversation was the 
only thing indulged in ; “ but — ” here he paused 
with a huge piece of pasty raised half-way to his 
mouth, “ think how much more glorious to be as we 
are, and — ” speaking with his mouth full of the 
pasty — “ to talk and eat, both.” 

“ Heaven protect and keep our fair young demoi- 
selle,” said King Francis, as he bent over Margery 
in farewell, with as courteous a salute even as he 
gave to the lady queen of England. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


233 


The closing hours of the great interview had come. 
It was the afternoon of Sunday, the twenty-fourth of 
June, 1 520 . The final exchange of state visits and 
dinners had been made, and now the French and 
English retinues, with the sovereigns and cardinals, 
met in the lists to say farewell. With the interchange 
of many rare and costly gifts — horses of blood, litters 
and chariots, hounds and hawks, bracelets and neck- 
laces, chains, and robes of gold and silver tissue, of 
velvet and of damask, — with many regrets and cour- 
teous phrases ; with flatteries and promises innum- 
erable ; with the music of trumpets and clarions, 
hautboys and sackbuts and flutes ; with the solemn 
covenant of the kings to build in the golden valley a 
memorial chapel for daily masses, to be called “ the 
Chapel of our Lady of the Peace ” ; amid the boom 
of artillery, the waving of banners, and the echoing 
shouts of farewell, the courts of France and England 
took leave of each other, and the “ Meeting of the 
Kings ” was a thing of the past. 

And so, back to Calais, and, after a week’s delay, 
over-sea to England went Rauf and Margery, full 
of regret that the splendid life of pleasure and ex- 
citement that they had lived for two royal weeks 
had come to an end. The intimacy between them 
never weakened, but developed and strengthened 
into a lasting friendship. Visits to Verney Hall 
and to the manor house of Carew were frequent, 


234 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


and whether climbing the Chiltern H ills, or exploring 
the woods of Aylesbury, or scouring with horse and 
hawk and hound the verdant vales of Surrey, one 
topic for conversation never lacked. As they grew 
older they learned to see beneath the glitter of pa- 
geantry and the sound of courtly phrases the deeper 
designs of policy and state-craft ; but still the mem- 
ories of that youthful journey to France remained 
ever radiant and glorious with the halo of romance, 
and to their latest days they could tell again and 
again to open-mouthed audiences of children and 
grandchildren the never-failing story of the wonders 
and the glories of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. 

Such, in brief detail, dear reader, is the story of 
that royal interview between the kings of France 
and England, to which reference is so often made ; 
which stands in history as one of the most sump- 
tuous, most imposing, and most useless of all the 
ceremonials on record ; and upon which illuminator 
and artist, poet, historian, and novelist have drawn 
for subject and for theme. Many of the descrip- 
tions of dress, of interview, and of ceremony have 
here been omitted, both from lack of space and 
from an indisposition to tire with too much gold and 
glitter. Nor has mention been made of that other 
side of the picture — of the motley crowds that hung 
upon the skirts of the pageant, kept back only by the 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


235 


pikes and bows of the guards ; of the poverty and 
suffering of the people who were squeezed and 
taxed for the money expended in this gorgeous 
show. No; nor 
of the utter 
fruitlessness 
of the whole 
affair as a mat- 
ter of states- 
manship. For 
the great King 
Henry of Eng- 
land, and his 
shrewd advis- 
er, the lord-car- 
dinal, by an 
act of double- 
dealingalmost 
unparalleled 
in history, 
went direct 
from the trea- 
ties, the prom- 
ises, the pres- 
ents, and the 
pretended affections of that stately farewell in 
the “golden valley, ” to the town of Gravelines, near 
Dunkirk, where waited the crafty young emperor, 



“ IN THE VERDANT VALES OF SURREY.” 


236 


CIIIVALKIC DA VS. 


Charles the Fifth. With him, in three days, Henry 
arranged a treaty that broke all the promises that 
had been made to Francis, and, as the record 
shows, “ sacrificed to a new alliance the monarch 
whose hospitality he had accepted and returned.” 

Yet, such disloyal conduct was esteemed shrewd 
statesmanship ; and now, even as then, politics and 
diplomacy, in the hands of men who disregard 
truth and faith and honor, may be as full of deceit 
and hypocrisy. But, as you read history thought- 
fully, you will learn also that true manliness and 
true womanliness pay best in the long run, and 
that he who tries to walk in the line of duty or of 
honest faith, be he prince or peer, youth or yoe- 
man, statesman or student, helps on, in some 
degree, the progress and betterment of the world 
in which he lives. 

But it was during the reigns of the three princes 
we have here met — Henry of England, Francis of 
France, and Charles of Germany — that the more 
practical light of modern endeavor began to change 
the thought, the customs, and the manners of Chris- 
tendom; and, as almost the last flush of that glory 
of chivalry and ceremonial that marked the times 
wdiich we now call the Middle Ages, there is to be 
found much of interest, much of gorgeous coloring, 
and much of picturesque magnificence in the won- 
der-filled story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. 



(A Story of the Old Rdgime.') 

Adapted from the French of Madame Eugenie Foa. 
[ a . d . 1666.] 


THE GENTLEMEN- VOLUNTEERS. 

I T was the days of the “ Old Regime,” — that 
time of struggle in Europe when that caste- 
ridden land was the sport of princes and the prey 
of scheming courtiers. Kings were jealous of 
kings, and nations of nations. France and Eng- 
land, Holland and Spain, Austria and Germany, 
the Italian despotisms and the Northern kingdoms, 
were all in a ferment of hatred and of feud. France, 
with the finest army in the world, was scheming 
the dismemberment and appropriation of Spain ; 
Holland, with the strongest navy in the world, was 
grappling in actual war with England. 

It was, indeed, the day of great naval battles and 


237 


238 


CHIVALKIC DA VS. 


triumphs, and England, which had won the su- 
premacy of the seas under Raleigh and Drake and 
brave Sir Richard Grenville, had now to yield the 
palm to Holland, whose great admirals, De Ruyter 
and Van Tromp, had proved the valor and strength 
of Holland in many a stubborn sea-fight, and now 
carried at the mast-head of the admiral’s flag-ship a 
great broom, in proof of their claim that the Dutch 
republic had swept the seas of her enemies. 

It was in the year 1666, and when the war be- 
tween Holland and England was at its height, that 
a stout young lad paced up and down the terrace 
wall of a well-built house that stood high upon 
one of the rocky cliffs of the French coast near to 
Calais in the old province of Picardy. 

With a strong and sturdy frame, a clear eye and 
a frank, open face, — a sailor lad, every inch of him, 
— Jean Bart, though scarce fifteen, was one of the 
handiest and most trusted assistants in the employ 
of Master Raoul Valbue, the royal pilot in the vil- 
lage of St. Paul. 

The royal pilot’s house looked from its high cliff 
far out across the choppy Straits of Dover and the 
broad North Sea, and it was on the terrace before 
this house that Jean Bart, evidently deep in 
thought, was slowly pacing back and forth. 

Master Valbue was pilot of St. Paul and the 
coast thereabout by royal appointment, and his 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTA/.V OF THE CARAVEL . 


239 


light, high-sterned caravel was even now moored in 
safe harbor in the mouth of the . little creek at the 
foot of the cliff. 

Jean Bart was a capital sailor. Boy though 
he was, he could, like the man in the comic opera, 
“ hand, reef, and steer, or ship 
a salvagee,” with any sailor on 
the Channel coast. And many 
a little maiden of St. Paul, in 
queer-fitting cap and stout 
wooden shoes, knew both the 
sound of his ready oars and 
the ring of his merry voice as 
far off from shore he would 
send back the echo 
of her “Hillo-ho; 
boat ahoy ! ” In- 
deed his inseparable 
attendant, Pierre 
Sauret — a sad old 
sea-dog, who could 
smoke a stronger 
pipe and spin a 
tougher yarn than 
any other old sea-dog from Calais to Cherbourg, 
— firmly believed in the exceptional talents and 
valor of this Picard sailor-lad, who had been the 
old man’s constant care ever since the day ten 



OFF COLCHESTER TOWERS. 


240 


CIIIVALRIC DA YS. 


years before when the boy’s father, brave Cornelle 
Bart, had been killed by English guns in the port 
of Dunkirk. 

For Jean, old Sauret kept his cheeriest story 
and his toughest yarn ; but this night not even his 
favorite sea-fibs about the great sea-serpent of the 
Bay of Biscay or of the giant mariner of the South- 
ern seas could hold or interest the musing lad. 

For Jean had just heard of the great sea-fight in 
the Downs — that stretch of water between Dover 
and Margate, or the North and South Forelands, 
on the southeastern coast of England, — in which 
after a four days’ fight, the Dutch Admiral De Ruy- 
ter had defeated and scattered the fleet and forces 
of Prince Rupert and General Monk, the English 
commanders. 

The boy’s restless nature yearned for oppor- 
tunity for action, and the free, roving spirit of his 
sea-faring ancestry filled him with a longing to see 
a naval battle, and to share its dangers and excite- 
ments. 

Boys and girls of these less warlike days cannot 
perhaps understand this half-savage desire of young 
Jean Bart, but this bold French lad of two centuries 
ago was but a type of his age — the age of unrest 
and battle — just as, I trust, our gentler and stay-at- 
home boys and girls are types of our happier days 
when wars are less frequent, nations more friendly, 






A LITTLE MAIDEN OF ST. PAUL. 
(From a painting by Gra3'son.) 


241 


242 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


and men less ready to hack and hew each other be- 
cause of real or fancied differences. 

“ What a sight it must have been ! ” exclaimed 
young Jean aloud, as old Pierre Sauret paused for 
breath in one of his best sea stories. 

“It was indeed, as you say, a great sight, Mas- 
ter Jean,” said the old man. “ The giant sailor 
rose at least a half-fathom above our mast-head, 
and ” 

“ A plague on your sea giant,” cried Jean, im- 
patiently. “ It is not of him I was thinking, 
Pierre. I meant this fight between the Admiral 
De Ruyter and the English, of which we have 
heard. Must it not have been glorious ? How I 
would like, if only for once, to see the great ad- 
miral and to beat the English ! ” 

“ Truly, Master Jean ” old Sauret began, but 

just then they heard a footstep, and through the 
open gateway of the pilot’s garden came the form 
of a man dimly outlined in the night shadows. 

Jean’s sharp eyes, however, recognized the new- 
comer at once. He was the innkeeper of the 
White Cross, a tavern in the village of St. Paul. 

“ Well, friend Mousset,” said the boy, “ and what 
brings you here so late in the night ?” 

“ A thousand pardons, Monsieur Jean,” said the 
innkeeper, very politely, for the royal pilot and his 
men were important personages in the little sea- 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL . 243 

village ; “ a thousand pardons for this late coming, 
but here, without, wait three young gentlemen of 
the court who desire to speak with Master Valbue.” 

“ Master Valbue is at sea,” Jean Bart replied. 
“ What do they wish ? ” 

“ At sea, say you ? ” cried the innkeeper. “ Why, 
does not his caravel float at her moorings yonder ? ” 

“Truly she does,” the boy answered, “but all 
the same, the royal pilot is at sea. He has gone to 
conduct a crippled man-of-war — one of the Admiral 
De Ruyter’s fleet — into Calais harbor; so he can- 
not answer your wish ; but what, I ask, do these 
men desire ? ” 

“ They are the lords of Cavoye, d’Harcourt, and 
de Coislin,” said Mousset, dwelling upon the high- 
sounding names with much satisfaction, “ and they 
are bound with the king’s permission as gentlemen- 
volunteers to the Admiral De Ruyter’s fleet. They 
wish that Master Valbue shall pilot them to the ad- 
miral’s flag-ship, off the coast of Harwich,” 

“ Thanks, Mousset,” said Jean, simply, and then 
he added : “ Sauret, bid the gentlemen come here. 
I will see them.” 

The innkeeper appeared quite taken aback by 
young Jean’s tone of authority, but old Sauret took 
it all as a matter of course, and lifting the copper 
lamp from its place in the terrace window he beck- 
oned to Mousset, and proceeded to the street door 


244 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


upon which the visitors were now rapping impa- 
tiently. 

Very speedily the old man reappeared, followed 
by three young noblemen, gorgeous in silks and 
ribbons and great plumed hats. Jean stood lean- 
ing against the terrace-window and looked uncon- 
cernedly off upon the sea. 

“ The pilot Valbue?” loudly demanded the 
foremost of the three visitors, looking about the 
dimly-lighted terrace and apparently not noticing 
the boy. 

“ He is not here,” Jean replied in much the same 
tone as that of the inquirer. 

The man looked at him haughtily. 

“ And why is he not here, clown ?” he said. 

“That is his business,” replied Jean, a trifle inso- 
lently, I fear. 

“ How now ; no jokes with me, you young 
rascal,” exclaimed the visitor angrily, raising his 
beribboned cane as if to strike. 

Jean’s too ready hand sought his leathern belt. 

“ Dare to strike me,” he said, “ and it shall go 
hard with you.” 

“ Come, come, Cavoye,” cried another of the 
new-comers, laying a hand on the arm of his com- 
panion, “ this will never do. This boy is not one 
of your servants. I know how high-spirited are 
the sailors of Picardy.” Then turning to the boy. 



self and these gentlemen in his caravel to the 
Dutch squadron ? and if so, why is he not here 
and ready for us ? ” 


“ I AM THE ROYAL PILOT’S MATE,” HE REPLIED. 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL . 245 


who still stood, calm but defiant, he added : “ My 
friend, did not the royal pilot receive the order of 
Monsieur the Governor of Calais to conduct my- 


246 


CHIVALKIC DA VS. 


“ Sir,” replied Jean, coolly, “ a pilot can wait for 
no man when the call of danger comes. Master 
Valbue is not here, truly, but his caravel is, never- 
theless.” 

“Well, and what good is his caravel to us?” 
angrily cried the hot-tempered Cavoye. “ Who 
will use it, if he is not here ? ” 

“ I will,” said Jean. 

“You!” exclaimed the three lords in a breath, 
looking down at the boy with contempt. “ Why, 
who are you ? ” 

Jean Bart was quite as independent in tone and 
manner as his visitors. He picked up a sea-pillow 
he had been refilling and, stowing it carelessly 
under his arm, looked calmly and coolly at his 
questioners. 

“ I am the royal pilot’s mate,” he replied. 

“ Well, well,” laughed the Chevalier d’Harcourt, 
turning to his companions, “ here is a singular 
child.” Then he added impatiently : “Come, let us 
go, gentlemen. We waste time here. Since the 
royal pilot is not at his post, we must report our 
misadventure to the governor.” 

“As you please, gentlemen,” said Jean, seem- 
ingly unmoved ; “ light them to the door, Sauret.” 

The three gentlemen turned toward the house, 
undecidedly. 

“Ten thousand thunders ! ” exclaimed the Mar- 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAFE L. 247 

quis de Coislin, as Sauret took up the lamp, “ but 
this is most vexatious? To be so near the battle 
and yet not able to get to it.” 

“ And all because of this stupid pilot,” cried the 
angry Cavoye. “ Are not we, who go under permis- 
sion of the king to join De Ruyter, of more import- 
ance than a broken-down Dutch war-ship ? ” 

Jean, though apparently so unconcerned, was in 
reality watching them anxiously, for he longed for 
the opportunity to show his abilities as a pilot. 
“ Believe me, gentlemen,” he said, as he saw them 
still hesitating at the open door, “ believe me, 
gentlemen, I know of what I speak, when I tell 
you that if you do not make use of this night’s 
wind you will regret it. Here is a southerly 
breeze to push you on ; and here, too, is the moon, 
full and just rising. The water will be as light as 
day. In two hours you can double the South Fore- 
land, and in two more we can make the North 
Foreland. Once there, God willing, we can easily 
find the fleet of the admiral, which, so the pilots tell 
me, now lies off that coast. It is as easy for me to 
take you there as to walk about this terrace. And 
if all this does not suit you, gentlemen, why — good- 
night to you.” 

“ The boy is very confident,” said the chevalier. 

“ And careless too — for there is much danger in 
the route he gives us,” added the duke. 


248 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ But, nevertheless, he is adventurolls, ,, exclaimed 
the Marquis de Cavoye, “ and I for one incline to 
risk it. My friend,” he said impetuously, extend- 
ing his gloved hand to Jean, “ I was too hasty with 
you. I own it.” 

The boy grasped the scented glove of the mar- 
quis in his brown little fist and shook it cordially. 

“ Then, sir, I will think no more of it,” he said. 
“ If you had thrashed me, good faith, then would I 
have thrashed you, and we could have proved which 
was the better man. But that need not have kept 
you from boarding my caravel, nor me from pilot- 
ing you to the Dutch squadron. No, indeed ! It 
would have been simply a little sport between gen- 
tlemen, and as a seaman, I ” 

“ But,” interrupted Cavoye, in spite of his smile 
at the lordly airs of this singular lad, “ but, my young 
friend, this is no small affair that we are abroad upon. 
Do you not see that, if we go with you, three lives 
are entrusted to your skill, and you are very young.” 

“ Very young ! ” exclaimed Jean. “Why I am 
nearly fifteen. Nay, then, if you are afraid — good- 
night. You had better get a priest to escort you.” 

“We are Frenchmen and gentlemen, saucy 
boy,” cried Cavoye. “ But you, doubtless, cannot 
understand how great a responsibility you assume 
in thus offering to take men of our standing to 
the fleet of the admiral.” 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 249 

“ I say again that you are either afraid or else 
you cannot trust me,” said Jean. “ Sauret, show 
them the sword and the paper, and they may then 
believe in me.” 

Nothing loth the old sailor led them into the 
house and, leaving them there an instant, speedily 
returned bearing, with great pride, a silver-hilted 
sword and a belt with a silver border. Taking 
from the belt a paper bearing the seal of France, 
he presented it to the Chevalier d’Harcourt. 

“ Can you read, sir ? ” he said. 

D’Harcourt smiled as he unrolled the paper, 
and the old man added as if repeating a lesson : 

“ Then read, sir, and know that to create a de- 
sire in seamen to perfect themselves in artillery 
exercises, His Excellent Majesty, King Louis 
XIV., has ordered that two prizes shall be distrib- 
uted each Sunday to those who make the best 
answers to the questions put to them, and to those 
who show the best knowledge of the use of the 
cannon. For the first prize, a pistole ; for the 
second, a half pistole. That is the royal ordinance 
of 1660, as you may see it in the archives of Dun- 
kirk. And yet, again, gentlemen, every three 
months there is an extraordinary prize of a sword 
and belt of the king’s livery, valued at six pistoles f 
adjudged to the best artillerist. It is this prize 
that my young master has gained, gentlemen, as 


250 


CHIVALKIC DA YS. 


you may see by this certificate ” — and he rapped the 
paper proudly — “which attests that the said Jean 
Bart, apprenticed coast pilot, has gained the prize 
as the best artilleryman of Calais.” 

“And you are Jean Bart ?” demanded D’Har- 
court. 

“ I am,” replied the boy, proudly. 

“ And you have been a sailor ? ” 

“ Seven years.” 

“ And you are sure ” 

“ Sure ! ” the boy burst out indignantly. “ Why, 
sirs, you could not have more ceremony if you 
were going to be hung. There is ten o’clock ring- 
ing from the church tower. Time passes, gentle- 
men. Is it yes or no ? ” 

“ But your crew ? ” queried de Coislin. 

“ Oh, the crew will soon be ready,” said Jean. “ It 
is this old man, Sauret, who knows the sea as he 
does his pocket, the two sailors now asleep in the 
caravel yonder, and myself — the captain. Do you 
go ? ” 

“.Go ? Of course,” answered the impetuous 
Cavoye. “ Come, gentlemen, we cannot let this 
boy be more resolute than we. Make ready your 
caravel, Jean Bart, and we will join you speedily 
with our men.” 

“ But not too many, sir,” said Jean. “ I may not 
over-ballast the caravel.” 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 25 I 

“ Why, we do not bring the king’s army, boy,” 
laughed de Cavoye. “We will but bring a valet 
apiece and no more,” and at once they were 
gone. 

Jean Bart was quiet enough after his passengers 
had departed, though old Sauret rattled on as was 
his wont, now praising his own eloquence over 
Jean’s certificate, and now telling a long story of a 
mermaid and a whale. 

“Tell me, Sauret,” said Jean, breaking in upon 
the old man’s story, “ tell me, if a — certain thing — of 
which I do not wish now to speak, but which may 
happen nevertheless — if such a thing should happen 
— tell me, Sauret, could you bring back Master 
Valbue’s caravel alone ? ” 

“ Bring back the caravel — alone — and without 
you, Master Jean,” cried the old man. “Why, 
then, where would you be ? ” 

“ God knows, my dear old friend,” replied Jean, 
soberly. 

“ Ah, then, God knows for me also,” said the 
loving old man ; “ for where you go, there go I 
too, Master Jean, were it to the end of the world ; 
and where you remain, there do I, though it be at 
the bottom of the ocean.” 

“ Well, Sauret, let us hope it will not be there,” 
said Jean ; “ and now go, waken Jacques and Herve, 
who are asleep in the caravel, and make all things 


252 


CHI V A LR 1C DA VS. 


ready for our sailing- ; these high and mighty 
gentlemen cannot be long coming.” 

“ And you are to be captain of the caravel, Mas- 
ter Jean,” said old Sauret, proudly. “ Ah, would 
that your father could have seen this night, and at 
fifteen — at fifteen ! But think of it ! ” 

And in high spirits the faithful old man went 
out to make ready the caravel. 

Before fifteen minutes had passed, caravel, crew, 
and passengers were in readiness for the start. 
The three lords, de Cavoye, de Coislin, and d’Har- 
court, with their valets and luggage descended the 
rock-steps, hewn out of the solid face of the cliff, 
at the foot of which floated the pilot’s vessel. 
There Jean Bart received them. 

“To England, Monsieur the little Captain ! ” 
cried Cavoye, gaily, as he mounted the rope ladder 
that swung at the side of the caravel. 

“To England ! ” echoed his two companions, as 
they followed him over the side. 

You ng J ean lifted his peaked skull-cap with all the 
grace and dignity of one of his majesty’s admirals. 

“To England, gentlemen ! ” he responded, and 
mounted the swinging ladder. 

Just then the quick tramp of a galloping horse 
fell upon their ears ; the rider drew rein on the 
the crest of the cliff above, and the next instant 
came clattering down the rocky steps. 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL . 253 

“ Holo ; in the boat there ! ” he cried, as he came, 
and in the light of the full moon Jean recognized 
the livery of one of the couriers of the governor of 
Calais. 

“ Holo ; on the shore ! ” replied the boy. 

“ From Monsieur the Governor of Calais,” said 
the messenger. “ He bids you, the captain of the 
caravel, if the wind hold fair, to stay for nothing, 
nor delay on your course toward the Dutch squad- 
ron. Monsieur the Governor is advised that Eng- 
lish ships are cruising in the channel.” 

“ Peste / ” came in vexed undertone from the 
boy on the swinging ladder. Then, with a nod to 
the messenger, and the simple reply, “ It is well,” 
he sprang lightly to the deck of the caravel and 
gave instant order to weigh anchor. 


IN ENGLISH WATERS. 

The caravel of Master Valbue, the royal pilot 
of St. Paul, was one of the queer-looking coast- 
ing vessels of those old days — much the same 
in appearance as were the three little vessels in 
which Columbus ventured out upon the broad 
Atlantic and discovered a new world across the 
sea. It had a high, square, and narrow-looking 
stern, a wide and high-built bow ; it was without 


254 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


top-mast, and carried a lateen or large triangular 
sail. It was a good sailer and was easily managed 
by the small crew that the boy pilot had as his as- 
sistants. The breeze was favorable, and the moon, 
now high in the heavens, distinctly showed the 
course. The voyagers were soon speeding along 
the coast of Kent and through the Downs, where 
the great sea-fight had taken place, and now a 
broad opening off their port bow showed them that 
they were in the king’s channel &t the mouth of 
the Thames. 

It was now that Jean Bart gave a whispered 
order to the helmsman, and the vessel, changing 
her course, scud before the wind straight up the 
broad mouth of the English river. 

The three noblemen looked at each other un- 
easily. They, too, had heard the message of the 
governor, “ English ships are cruising in the chan- 
nel,” and they had no desire to be run down and 
captured by the enemy’s cruisers. What did this 
new course of their young pilot mean ? Together 
and instantly they sprang from the bench upon 
which they had been sitting and hastened toward 
Jean Bart, who, hatless and lightly clad, was now 
looking over the rail, absorbed in his own observa- 
tions, and apparently forgetful of both his passen- 
gers and his caravel. The Marquis de Cavoye 
rapped him smartly on the shoulder. 







256 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ See here, my friend,” he demanded, “ is it wise 
thus to run out of your course ? ” 

The young pilot turned on his questioner with 
flashing eyes. 

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said, “or, if you are 
tired, go to your hammocks. I can sail my vessel 
without your advice.” 

Cavoye’s face grew red with anger. 

“ Well, but I like that,” he said. “ Look ye, 
fellow, do you know the great risk you run in thus 
disobeying the governor’s order ? Come, return to 
the proper course at once, or it shall go hard with 
you.” 

Apparently unmoved by this threat Jean still 
gazed out over the rail. Then he said, without 
even glancing up : 

“ Which of us two commands this caravel ?” 

“ Unfortunately you do, rascal,” answered Cavoye 
angrily ; “ and it would seem only to lose us all.” 

Again came the calm question of the boy, “ And 
which one of us fills, just now, the office of royal 
pilot on this deck ? ” 

“You again, headstrong fellow,” replied the 
marquis. 

Young Jean straightened himself and looked his 
angry passenger full in the face. 

“ Then, sir,” he said, “it is my order that you 
seat yourself at once and leave me alone.” 


MONSIEUR, THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 257 

And still the caravel sped on its new course into 
the mouth of the Thames. 

For an instant the three passengers were almost 
speechless with astonishment and rage. Then they 
burst out almost in a breath : 

“Clown!” “Pig!” “Rascal!” “ What does this 
mean ? ” 

“ Do you think,” demanded Cavoye, threaten- 
ingly, “ that gentlemen like us will allow ourselves 
to be led and bullied by such a stupid boy as you ?” 
And the noble marquis in his excess of rage shook 
both his clenched fists in the face of the boy. 
“ Come,” he cried ; “ boy, mate, captain, royal pilot 
— whatever you call yourself — change your course 
or, trust me, you shall suffer for it ! ” 

“ Perhaps the boy is a traitor,” said de Coislin, 
“ and has but lured us here to sell us to the Eng- 
lish. Have we gotten ourselves into such a fool’s 
trap, think you ? ” 

“ Change your course,” again demanded the 
wrathful de Cavoye ; “ change your course, you 
young rascal, or we will fling you overboard ! ” 

“Try it if you dare!” cried Jean facing them 
again with flashing eyes, “ try it if you dare ! ” 
Then, as if a new thought had struck him, he 
added, “Very well, sir; fling me overboard. You 
can do it. You are six to four. You have your 
swords and I have but a sheath knife. But, tell me, 


258 


CJ/IVALRIC DA YS. 


who will pilot you from this place if I am at the 
bottom of the sea? Not old Sauret here, who will 
follow me down there, too, rather than pilot you. 
Neither will it be Jacques, nor Herve ; for Jacques, 
scarce knows his right hand from his left and 
Herve, who is at the helm, will only obey my or- 
ders. The English are scarce a gunshot off. There 
— see there — can you not see off to starboard — but 
no you are not sailor enough for that. Those black 
dots far off to starboard, though, are frigates — Eng- 
lish frigates ! Now will you fling me overboard ? 
Steady, Herve ; keep her right on this tack. Now 
then, gentlemen, yonder are the English frigates. 
Will you sit quietly by or will you take my place — 
one of you — as captain of the caravel ? ” 

The three noblemen looked at each other in 
perplexity. 

“ But at least, good Jean,” said the Chevalier 
d’Harcourt, swallowing his alarm and wrath and 
striving to speak calmly, “ at least, good Jean, you 

will explain to us ” 

The boy straightened himself proudly. 

“ No, sir, I will explain nothing,” he said. “ At 
sea I answer only my superiors and on this deck 
I have none. I am captain of the caravel ! ” 

There was nothing for it but to keep quiet, and 
with deep and bitter maledictions against this mad 
boy, who seemed piloting them to capture or to 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL . 259 

death, and against themselves, also, for being so 
foolish as to have trusted themselves to his guid- 
ance, the three noble lords sullenly reseated them- 
selves, while the caravel still sped up the Thames 
and the boy pilot stood calmly at his post of obser- 
vation. On board the caravel all was still, only the 
wash of the waves against the vessel’s prow break- 
ing the silence of the clear night. 

But if they were still, the boy’s passengers were 
by no means calm within. Rage and chagrin filled 
their hearts to think that they — the three most 
brilliant and haughty noblemen of King Louis’ 
haughty court — should be obliged to yield to a 
common sailor-boy — a child — a stupid young ras- 
cal whom they thought beneath contempt. But 
they vowed to be revenged upon him when once 
affairs should turn or they were safe on board the 
admiral’s flag-ship. Would they ever be safely 
there ? 

Finally de Coislin muttered in low tones to 
d’Harcourt : 

“ Why not throttle this fellow, anyhow, and 
trust to luck to guide us to the Dutch fleet ? ” 

But before the chevalier could reply they saw 
the young pilot start suddenly from his watchful 
attitude and hasten to the helmsman with a whis- 
pered command. The caravel came about with a 
turn that almost threw the passengers from their 


26 o 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


bench, and then commenced a series of turns and 
tacks that surprised as well as interested them, in 
spite of their rage and fear. 

Jean Bart seemed multiplied into a dozen pilots. 
He issued order after order with wonderful preci- 
sion, clearness, and presence of mind, and in the 
midst of it all the wondering passengers discovered 
that the caravel was being hotly pursued by an 
English cruiser. 

They watched the chase with breathless anxiety. 
At last, after perhaps fifteen minutes — it seemed to 
them an age — had been passed in these tacks and 
turns and manoeuvres, Jean Bart, approaching 
them, said : 

“ Gentlemen, I wish to assure you that you have 
nothing to fear from the frigate that is pursuing 
us. I have the offing, and intend to bring her into 
shoal water, where she must give up the chase or 
run aground. The caravel rows in shallow water 
quite as well as she sails in the clear. See, see, gen- 
tlemen, how small the frigate is becoming ! Wait 
till we turn yonder rocky point ; there ! she has lost 
us ; we are safe from her clutch ! Now, who will 
say that I am not a bold and skilful seaman ? ” 

“We will, rascal,” cried de Cavoye, “when we 
see you swinging from the longest yard-arm of the 
admiral’s ship ! ” 

“ As you please, gentlemen,” replied this very 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 26 1 

•cool lad ; “we will see what we shall see when we 
are aboard the admiral’s ship ! ” 

It was eight o’clock in the morning when Jean’s 
caravel ran alongside the admiral’s great flag-ship 
“The Seven Provinces,” in the centre of the Dutch 
squadron, which lay at anchor in Hainford Water, 
off the Harwich shore. 

The squadron was composed of seventy-five war- 
dships and eleven fire-ships, and was commanded by 
Michael Adrian de Ruyter,. lieutenant-admiral of the 
States-General of the United Provinces. 

The great stern of “The Seven Provinces,” five 
stories in height and rich in bronze and carving, 
loomed up in the centre of the fleet like a gigantic 
tower. From the high topmast floated the flag of 
Holland in orange, white, and blue, while from the 
towered stern of the flag-ship streamed out the 
Golden Lion of the United Provinces, holding in 
his paws the silver sword and golden arrows of the 
States-General. It was an immense vessel, and 
Jean regarded it with wonder and delight. 

“ Ahoy ; in the caravel ! ” came the challenge 
from the deck of the flag-ship. 

“ France ; and a message from monsieur the gov- 
ernor of Calais,” replied Jean Bart. 

“ Pass to starboard,” said the challenger, and 
the caravel with sails lowered drew alongside the 
flag-ship. 


262 


CHJVALRIC DA YS. 


The moment a rope was tossed over, Jean with 
the agility of a monkey swung himself aloft and 
had leaped to the deck of “The Seven Provinces” 
before his lordly passengers had even begun to 
clamber up the ladder. 

“ Sir,” said the boy saluting the officer of the 
deck, “will you conduct me to the admiral ?” 

The officer looked at this audacious young fel- 
low in surprise. 

“ And who may you be ? ” he asked. 

“I am the captain of the caravel,” Jean replied,, 
in a firm and resolute tone. “ I wish to deliver my 
three passengers to the admiral.” 

“ You can believe him, sir,” said the Marquis de 
Cavoye, who had just gained the deck and stood at 
Jean’s back ; “he is the captain of the caravel, and 
a famous captain he is, as I can assure the admiral. 
Pass before, monsieur the captain of the caravel ! ” 

Not apparently noticing the tone of mockery in 
which this was spoken, Jean Bart, with all the as- 
surance of a grown-up captain, walked in advance 
of his three passengers, escorting them to the pres- 
ence of the admiral. 

“ Monsieur the admiral,” said the officer who con- 
ducted the visitors, as he pushed open the door of 
one of the inner cabins of the great ship, “ I beg to 
announce the arrival of three French gentlemen 
charged with a message from monsieur the gov- 


MONSIEUR, THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 265 

ernor of Calais, and also this young seaman — the 
captain of the caravel that brought them. ,, 

The Admiral De Ruyter, a noble-looking old 
man of about sixty years, turned to greet his visi- 
tors. His kindly gray eyes had a look of surprise 
as they fell upon young Jean — “the captain of the 
caravel.” The lad blushed deeply as he met the 
gaze of the great sailor. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the admiral, glancing over 
the letter of the governor, “ I learn from these de- 
spatches that you have the sanction of the ally of 
the Provinces and your lord, King Louis of France,, 
to serve with me in the approaching naval combat 
as gentlemen volunteers. I shall be pleased of 
your assistance, and until that time will see you 
suitably quartered on this, my flag-ship. Is that 
all, gentlemen ? ” 

“ All, monsieur the admiral,” said the Marquis 
de Cavoye, answering for his companions, “except 
that we would ask you to add to your favors the 
further one of inflicting upon this young rascal here 
the punishment he deserves.” 

The admiral looked again at Jean Bart. 

“Why, what has he done?” he inquired. 

“ Ah, what has he not done, monsieur?” replied 
Cavoye. “ The royal pilot at St. Paul not being 
at his post, this headstrong boy ” — here he cast a 
withering glance at poor Jean — “declaring that he 


264 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


was the pilot’s mate, induced us to come to the 
squadron under his guidance. It was foolish, in us 
to agree I admit, but then — we are French and ad- 
venturous, and this child seemed so full of resolution 
and ability that we consented. Behold us then, 
monsieur the admiral — Messieurs de Coislin, d’Har- 
court, and myself — afloat in the most miserable tub 
in the world and at the mercy of a headstrong boy. 
Before weighing anchor he received a message from 
monsieur the governor of Calais not to venture 
out of his course because of the English ships 
cruising in the channel. And yet, would you be- 
lieve it, monsieur the admiral, it is precisely among 
these English frigates that this rascal fellow, this 
would-be captain has taken us ! ” 

“Is this true?” demanded the admiral, twisting 
his long white mustache and looking rather queerly 
at young Jean. “And what have you to say in 
your defence, little captain ? ” 

The boy looked at his questioner, with flushed face 
and forehead bathed in perspiration. H e was breath- 
ing hard and evidently much excited and awed by the 
presence of the great sailor he had so desired to see. 

“ Pardon, monsieur the admiral,” he said, slowly ; 
“ I cannot — this charge does not frighten me — but 
you — you do, monsieur the admiral.” 

The good-natured commander smiled at this 
open confession. 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL . 265 

“ I would not frighten you, my child,” he said, 
kindly ; “ but you have done a rash thing with these 
French gentlemen. What reason can you give ?” 

“That I can give only to you, alone, monsieur 
the admiral,” said Jean, boldly, recovering his 
equanimity. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the admiral, bowing toward 
his volunteers, “the officer will escort you to 
your quarters. We dine at noon. In any thing 
needful pray command my services.” 

The three noblemen withdrew and Jean Bart 
was alone with the admiral. 

“ Now my boy,” said de Ruyter, turning to 
Jean, “ did you indeed command this caravel — and 
alone ? ” 

The boy was still suffering from the attack of 
timidity which many a stout-hearted boy, and often, 
indeed, many an older person, feels in the presence 
of one whom he regards as a superior or looks up 
to as an ideal. But he resolutely swallowed this 
“lump of timidity” that lay in his throat and 
looked at the admiral confidently. 

“ That was easy enough, monsieur the admiral 
— to command the caravel,” he said ; “ I have been 
many a time in these waters, from Calais to Flush- 
ing, from Flushing to the Suffolk coast. We un- 
load many of our cargoes hereabout, from the 
Medway to Bawdsey Haven.” 


266 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ And tell me, my boy,” queried the admiral, al- 
ready appreciating the intrepidity of this small 
captain, “ ere you ran alongside this ship did you 
meet nothing in your course ? ” 

“ I met, monsieur the admiral, — because I in- 
tended to meet — something,” answered Jean, with a 
meaning smile. 

“So, so ; explain yourself,” said the admiral. 

“ See them, monsieur the admiral,” and Jean 
grew still more communicative. “ At first my de- 
sire was to see you, a famous, a wonderful seaman. 
And then came quickly another desire. ' For,’ 
said I, 'Jean, my boy,’ said I, 'it would be a fine 
stroke for you to find out what is to be seen in the 
mouth of the Thames ; it would be just what mon- 
sieur the admiral would like to know.’ This I 
wished to see, and this I saw ! ” 

'' You did, boy ? ” cried de Ruyter, " and what ? ” 
" I saw — but how far do you think I ran that 
caravel, monsieur the admiral,” asked Jean, his 
face one great smile, — “ and with those French 
lords on deck too ? I ran up the coast, sir, until I 
saw Colchester towers off the northwest quarter.” 

“ So far, lad ? ” exclaimed the admiral. 

“ And near the .shore, monsieur the admiral,” 
continued the boy, " off what they call the Bukey 
Sands, I saw about twelve or fifteen frigates. They 
were signalling the shore. I ran still nearer and, 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARA PEL. 2 67 

from the many masts I saw, I should say that the 
whole English fleet is anchored off Sheerness, tow- 
ard the Middle Ground. I would have gone even 
nearer, monsieur the admiral, but just then a 
frigate spied us and gave chase. But I did not 
fear the frigate, believe me ; a frigate draws more 
water than a caravel, and I could go where she 
dare not follow. I led them a pretty chase, how- 
ever, but at last the frigate lost me near the West 
Rocks, and here I am, monsieur the admiral.” 

“Well done, well done, my boy,” said the 
admiral, heartily, after Jean had finished his long 
story. “You have indeed done me a ser- 
vice. Your story but proves the truth of the other 
reports that have, com^ to me, and tells me just 
what I wished to learn. And now, monsieur the 
captain of the caravel, such bravery and such a ser- 
vice call for some reward. What can I do for 
you, my boy ? ” 

“ O monsieur the admiral,” cried Jean, his voice 
trembling with excitement, “ you can do — but ah ! 
it is too much — if I dared but ask ? ” 

“ So, so,” laughed the admiral, “ is your demand 
so very great? Is it to be vice-admiral of the fleet, 
or perhaps lieutenant-admiral in my place ? ” 

“ Ah, sir, you are laughing at me,” cried Jean. 

“ Well, well,” said de Ruyter, “ ask what you 
will. I am your debtor ; fear nothing.” 


268 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ O then, sir — monsieur the admiral ” — said Jean, 
“ it is that I might not leave you, that I might re- 
main at your side — as page, cabin-boy, what you 
will — if I can only behold a naval battle, and, per- 
haps, take part in it.” 

The cool gray eyes of the good Admiral de Ruy- 
ter almost reflected the joy that sparkled in those 
of the enthusiastic boy. 

“ But — your caravel ? ” he queried. 

'‘You can return it — -can you not — to the pilot at 
St. Paul ? ” Jean suggested. 

De Ruyter laid a hand upon the crisp black hair 
of the lad. 

“It shall be done,” he said. 

“ What — and I can go with you, monsieur the 
admiral ? ” 

“ Surely, if you will,” responded the commander. 

“Thanks, thanks — ten thousand thanks!” cried 
the happy boy. “ I shall go wild with joy, I — 
but, ah, monsieur the admiral, I have still more to 
ask.” 

“ So much ? Well, what now ? ” said the smiling 
admiral. 

“ I have with me a faithful old man — a good 
sailor — one who has cared for me since my own 
father, Cornelle Bart, fell at Dunkirk. He has 
never left me, monsieur the admiral ; he never will 
leave me ; ” — the lad hesitated. 



ADMIRAL DE RUYTER. 
(From an old Dutch print.) 


269 







CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


.270 

“ He need not leave you,” de Ruyter replied ; 
“ he, too, can remain.” 

Tears of joy coursed down Jean’s brown cheeks. 

“ Ah, monsieur the admiral,” he cried, “ I have 
nothing more to wish. I would give my life to 
you. It is all I have.” 

“ Nay, nay, child,” said the good admiral, gravely, 
“ guard your life for your country’s sake ; she has 
need for such brave lads as you ; for you, I am 
sure, will some day do her honor.” 

“ Ah, sir, I am too poor for that,” said the boy. 

“We are never too poor to rise, Jean,” replied 
de Ruyter. “ Listen, lad,” he added, placing his 
hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “ they call me 
admiral, do they not ? I command one hundred 
ships of war. A great Republic trusts me, and 
kings send their nobles for service in my fleet. 
And yet, Jean, this Adrian de Ruyter, whom to-day 
you see in so high a place, was once but a poor 
little lad, earning his sou a day by turning the 
great wheel in Master Lampscus’s rope-walk at 
Flushing. At eleven I took to the sea. I was 
cabin-boy and sailor, boatswain, mate, master, and 
captain, — and now, by God’s grace, admiral of the 
fleet of the Provinces. One needs despair of noth- 
ing, my child. He who will, will. Now go, register 
your name in the books and let Master Lely ex- 
amine you. Never mind his harshness, he is true 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 27 1 

at heart. Be brave and loyal, Jean. You shall 
soon see a hot and stubborn sea-fight, and I shall 
not forget you.” 


hi . 

THE BATTLE. 

Jean found old Sauret leaning over the high 
quarter of the flag-ship, turning, now to look at 
the manoeuvres of the sailors on board the frigate, 
or, now, to look down upon the royal pilot’s cara- 
vel that still lay moored to the great vessel. 

“ Sauret,” he said, touching the old man on the 
shoulder. 

“ Ah, you have concluded,” said the old sailor ; 
“ and when do we go, Master Jean ?” 

•“ Never, dear old man,” replied the boy. 

“ Wha-what, Master Jean !” old Sauret cried. 

“ Never, I say,” said Jean again ; '‘we are going 
to remain here — with the admiral. Come, we must 
be registered.” 

And so loyal a friend and servitor was old Pierre 
Sauret that without a word, simply lifting his hands 
for one instant in mute surprise, he followed the 
boy to the cabin of the purser. 

After being duly registered as common sailors, 
and having then each received from the commissary 
of stores a green cloth jacket with orange facings, 


272 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


and buttons, loose trousers of coarse woollen cloth, 
a red serge belt, and a brown woollen cap, Jean and 
Sauret passed to the cabin of the shipmaster, 
Abraham Lely. 

They found him to be, as the admiral had stated, 
a harsh — almost a savage man. But so were most 
of those in authority at sea in those harsh old days 
of severe discipline, and the two new recruits sim- 
ply obeyed him and answered all his questions. 

At his orders they spliced ropes and answered 
the customary sea catechism, while Jean proved 
such a ready answerer of all the masters hard 
questions in gunnery and seamanship, that the 
stern old officer seemed almost sorry that he could 
not catch him tripping. At last, the examination 
over, Master Lely simply motioned them to the 
door, through which they departed without fur- 
ther delay. 

“ Ah, Master Jean,” said old Sauret, when once 
they were upon the bridge, “ if you had but con- 
sulted me before engaging for us here, I could have 
told you how different is the war-ship from the 
merchant service. It is slavery, Master Jean — it 
is slavery.” 

“Ah, Sauret,” cried Jean, “but we are on the 
Admiral de Ruyter’s vessel, and he, I know, will 
be no over-hard master. Why, old friend, he told 
me that he himself commenced even lower down, 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 273 

and see — now is he admiral. What if some day 
you should say: Monsieur the Admiral Jean 
Bart ! ” 

“And why not, Master Jean, why not!” ex- 
claimed the loyal old man, almost fiercely; “there 
have been men, folk say, who from simple shepherds 
did become kings ; and why might not one like 
you — sailor from grandfather to grandson — some 
day well become admiral ? ” But here a roll of 
drums interrupted these dreams of glory, and the 
Admiral de Ruyter, accompanied by Jean’s noble 
passengers, the three gentleman volunteers, passed 
along on a tour of inspection. They stopped as 
they saw Jean, and to the boy’s great astonishment 
the Marquis de Cavoye extended his hand. 

“You are a brave lad and a gallant sailor, my 
friend,” he said. “ Had you but told me of your 
project while we were on board your caravel, in- 
stead of maligning you, Jean Bart, I should have 
aided you.” 

Before Jean could reply, an officer hastily ap- 
proached the admiral and, saluting, presented a 
paper. 

“ Despatches, monsieur the admiral,” he said, 
“from Monsieur the Grand Pensionary* DeWitt, 
with orders for the greatest haste.” 

* The Grand Pensionary of the Dutch Republic was its chief minister of 
slate, and, in the seventeenth century, its virtual president. 


274 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


The admiral ran his eye over the despatches. 

“ So, so,” he said ; “ here are orders for action.. 
Gentlemen,” (this to the French noblemen) “you 
will not have long to wait. And as for you, Jean,” 
he said, placing his hand kindly on the lad’s, 
shoulder, “ I will keep my promise. Master Lely 
has reported so well of your proficiency that he 
will station you where you shall serve and fire one 
of the best pieces in my arsenal.” 

The signal to weigh anchor was then given from 
the flag-ship, and an hour later the whole immense 
fleet of eighty ships of war set sail in line of 
battle and bore off from the Suffolk coast with 
a favoring breeze astern. 

“Ah ha,” said Jean Bart, with a strange mixture 
of both hope and fear in his breast, “ I shall smell 
powder to-morrow ! ” 

And smell powder he did. For on the next day, 
the 1 2th of August, 1666, the fleets of England 
and of Holland, two hundred sail in all, met off 
Sheerness, in the mouth of the Thames. 

Jean served his gun with wonderful precision 
and coolness. 

“ Sauret,” he had said, as the two gunners stood 
at their post just before the commencement of the 
engagement, “ Sauret, look at me. It is the first 
time I have seen real war. I do not think I am 
afraid, and yet I am trembling. If then you should 


MONSIEUR , THE CAPTAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 2?$, 

see me turn pale or seem to weaken under fire, 
take this pistol and, for the honor of the name of 
Bart, shoot me with it Through the head.” 

And old Sauret, taking the pistol, simply said : 
“ Yes, Master Jean.” 

But he had no need to use it. War, terrible and 
brutal as it is, possesses a tremendous power of ex- 
citement, and those who before an action com- 
mences tremble and turn pale, are frequently the 
coolest and bravest of the fighting men. It was 
so with young Jean. Man after man was shot 
down at the guns around him, the noise and 
shock of battle as heard on the gun-deck of that 
great battle-ship was frightful, but through it all 
Jean stood manfully to his work, aiming and fir- 
ing his piece, which brave old Sauret charged for 
him. So the lad who won the first prize in the 
artillery examination put his knowledge to practical 
effect. 

All day the fight continued, and when at nine 
o’clock the firing ceased, the Admiral de Ruyter, 
with a wounded arm carried in a sling, descended 
to the gun-deck. 

Passing the two powder-begrimed and blood- 
stained gunners, he struck young Jean lightly on 
the shoulder. 

“Well, my boy, and how did you like that?”’ 
he asked. 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


276 

“Sowell, monsieur the admiral,” replied Jean, 
saluting, “that I could wish that it might last 
longer, if my throat were not so dry.” 

The admiral smiled at this answer. “ Holo, 
there ! ” he called out to one of the sailors ; “ bring 
beer and biscuit for our cannoneer. So brave 
a young hero must not carry about a dry throat.” 

Next morning the battle recommenced, and Jean, 
roused by the first cannon, was at his gun at once. 

About noon there came a startling cry : 

“ A fire-ship to starboard ! ” 

And down upon the great flag-ship bore one of 
these terrors of naval warfare, a condemned and 
unrigged frigate filled with explosives and com- 
bustibles, and known as a fire-ship, which, floating 
among the fleet of an enemy, would cause great 
havoc and destruction as she exploded. 

Jean and old Sauret, and the three gentlemen 
volunteers, formed part of the picked crew of 
twenty men which, under command of Master 
Lely, pushed off to battle with the fire-ship. Their 
boat was one of the largest of those belonging to 
the frigate, and each man was armed to the teeth, 
with cutlass, pistol, and boarding knife. The three 
French noblemen were black with powder and 
smoke, and their ruined laces and torn clothes 
showed that they had not been mere lookers-on in 
the battle. 


MONSIEUR , THE CAR TAIN OF THE CARAVEL. 2JJ 

As the boat with Master Lely at the helm and 
the three gentlemen at the bow pushed off from 
the flag-ship, the great vessel so turned that the 
smaller boat dropped under her stern ; then when 
the fire-ship was two gun-shots away, the flag-ship 
sent a broadside full upon her. 

Then the row-boat pulled to the right of the 
flag-ship and Jean’s heart beat fast, for he knew 
that a moment of peril had arrived. A dozen 
sailors could be seen on the deck of the fire-ship. 

At a word from Master Lely the French nobles 
in the bow threw their hand grenades on the deck 
of the fire-ship. These, exploding fiercely, quickly 
cleared her deck. 

just then Jean, whose eyes were fixed upon Mas- 
ter Lely’s face, saw that brave man totter and fall, 
shot through the leg. At once the boy leaped to 
his feet, and noticing the position of the enemy, 
gave the direction to the helmsman who had taken 
the master’s place. 

Suddenly the young pilot detected a new move- 
ment on the fire-ship. “ Master Lely,” he cried, 
“they are putting off in their boat.” 

The wounded master raised himself to his knees. 

“Back water, back water, for your lives!” he 
shouted. “ The fire-ship is about to explode ! Off, 
off, or we are lost ! ” 

Three moments after a great column of smoke 


278 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


following a flash of flame burst from the fire-ship, 
and with a tremendous report, the vessel exploded, 
and the flag-ship of the admiral was saved. 

Such was Jean Bart’s first naval battle. It was 
but the beginning of a life of adventure and of 
valor that has made him one of the great charac- 
ters in the history of the sea and one of the heroes 
of the French people. 

After a few years’ service with the Admiral de 
Ruyter in the wars with England, Jean left the 
Dutch navy and returned to his native town of 
Dunkirk with the grade of second lieutenant. 

Soon after, by the cool and relentless obstinacy 
of Louis XIV., the war between France and Hol- 
land was declared, and the former allies now be- 
came deadly foes. 

Jean regretted the separation from his loved Dutch 
commander, but war, alas, knows no friendships, 
and he remembered the words of the admiral when 
the lad had wished that he might give him his life : 
“ Nay, nay, child ; guard your life for your country ; 
she has need for such brave lads as you.” 

And a brave lad he was. Step by step he rose 
from simple sailor to a position of honor in the 
French navy. 

In his day so rigid were the foolish rules of caste, 
that no person except of “high birth” could hold a 
command in the French navy. 



0 





WHEREVER HE SAILED ENGLISH VESSELS LEARNED TO FEAR THE NAME OF JEAN BART. 



28 o 


CHIVALIUC DA YS. 


So Jean became the captain of a privateer or in- 
dependent war-ship. His caravel was well manned 
and daringly officed, and wherever it sailed in those 
northern seas English vessels learned to fear the 
name of Jean Bart. 

As he grew older the bold and fearless spirit of 
the boy ripened into a sturdy, bluff, and fearless 
manhood, and Monsieur the Captain Bart was 
known as a man who said just what he thought, 
in a blunt and open way. His valor and his ser- 
vices, however, could not keep him always in this 
independent command, and one day King Louis 
the Fourteenth, spying the brave sailor in a gallery 
at Versailles, summoned him to his side and said : 

“Jean Bart, I appoint you chief of the squad- 
ron.” 

“ Sire, that is the right thing to do,” replied this 
bluff old seaman, whereat those who were not 
shocked at the answer laughed aloud, but King 
Louis simply said : “ Gentlemen, you do not know 
Jean Bart. He speaks as a man who knows that he 
can give me good and faithful service.” 

Through all those years of war and blood Jean 
Bart upheld the name of France upon the sea, and 
made its naval service almost equal to its military 
power. His feats of daring and his brilliant vic- 
tories over greatly superior forces read almost like 
romances, but they are true none the less. 






JEAN BART. 

(From a Painting by B6ranger.) 

281 







282 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


His statue in the old sea-port of Dunkirk in 
Northern France attests the honor in which the 
people of his native town have held him ; and his 
daring, his chivalry, and his unselfish devotion to 
what he deemed his duty have made him one of 
the heroes of France, and given him the title of 
“ the Bayard of the Seas.” Boys who enjoy stories 
of the sea and who revel in the excitement of sea- 
fights, escapes, and captures, will find no more inter- 
esting reading in all the fact and fiction of the ocean 
than the life - story of this fearless and popular 
French sailor, whose first historic exploit was his 
bold spying-out of the position of the English fleet 
in the Thames on that memorable day when he 
pushed boldly out from Calais as “ Monsieur the 
Captain of the Caravel.” 




X. 

THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 

[a.d. 1783.] 

I T was the 25th of November, 1783 — a brilliant 
day, clear, crisp, and invigorating, with just 
enough of frosty air to flush the eager cheeks and 
nip the inquisitive noses of every boy and girl in 
the excited crowd that filled the Bowery lane from 
Harlem to the barriers, and pressed fast upon the 
heels of General Knox’s advance detachment of 
Continental troops marching to the position as- 
signed them, near the “tea-water pump.” In the 
Duane mansion a fire was blazing brightly and 
Mistress Dolly’s pet cat was purring comfortably 
in the cheerful light. But Mistress Dolly herself 
cared just now for neither cat nor comfort. She, 
too, was on the highway watching for the exciting 
events that were to make this Evacuation Day in 
New York one of the most memorable occasions 
in the history of the chief American city. 

At some points the crowd was especially pushing 


284 


CIIIVALRIC DA VS. 


and persistent, and Mistress Dolly Duane was de- 

cidedly uncom- 
fortable. For 
little Dolly de- 
tested crowds, 
as, in fact, she 
detested every 
thing that in- 
terfered with 
the comfort 
of a certain 
dainty little 
maiden of thir- 
teen. And she 
was just on the 
point of ex- 
pressing to her 
cousin, young 
Edward Liv- 
ingston, her 
regret that 
they had not 
stayed to wit- 
ness the pro- 
cession from 
the tumble- 
down o-ate- 

o 

IN THE DUANE MANSION. yr ay of the 



THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 285 

Duane country-house, near the King’s Bridge road, 
when, out from the crowd, came the sound of a 
child’s voice, shrill and complaining. 

“ Keep off, you big, bad man ! ” it said ; “ keep 
off and let me pass ! How dare you crowd me so, 
you wicked rebels ? ” 

“ Rebels, hey ? ” a harsh and mocking voice ex- 
claimed. “Rebels! Heard ye that, mates ? Well 
crowed, my little cockerel. Let ’s have a look at 
you,” and a burly arm rudely parted the pushing 
crowd and dragged out of the press a slight, dark- 
haired little fellow of seven or eight, clad in velvet 
and ruffles. 

“ Put me down ! Put me down, I say ! ” screamed 
the boy, his small face flushed with passion. “ Put 
me down, I tell you, or I ’ll bid Angevine horse- 
whip you ! ” 

“ Hark to the little Tory,’’ growled his captor. 
“A rare young bird, now, is n’t he? Horsewhip 
us, d’ ye say — us, free American citizens ? And 
who may you be, my little beggar ? ” 

“ I am no beggar, you bad man,” cried the child, 
angrily. “ I am the little lord of the manor.” 

“Lord of the manor! Ho, ho, ho!” laughed 
the big fellow. “ Give us grace, your worship,” 
he said, with mock humility. “ Lord of the manor! 
Look at him, mates,” and he held the struggling 
little lad toward the laughing crowd. “ Why, there 


286 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


are no lords nor manors now in free America, my 
bantam.” 

“ But I am, I tell you ! ” protested the boy. 
“ That ’s what my grandfather calls me — oh, where 
is he? Take me to him, please : he calls me the 
little lord of the manor.” 

“ Who ’s your grandfather ? ” demanded the 
man. 

“Who? Why, don’t you know?” the “little 
lord” asked, incredulously. “Everybody knows 
my grandfather, I thought. He is Colonel Phil- 
lipse, Baron of Phillipsbourg, and lord of the 
manor ; and he ’ll kill you if you hurt me,” he 
added, defiantly. 

“Phillipse, the king of Yonckers ! Phillipse, 
the fat old Tory of West Chester ! A prize, a 
prize, mates ! ” shouted the bully. “ What say 
you ? Shall we hold this young bantling hostage 
for the tainted Tory, his grandfather, and when 
once we get the old fellow serve him as we did the 
refugee at Wall-kill t’ other day ? ” 

“ What did you do ?” the crowd asked. 

“ Faith, we tarred and feathered him well, put 
a hog-yoke on his neck and a cow-bell, too, and 
then rode him on a rail till he cheered for the 
Congress.” 

“Treat my grandfather like that — my good 
grandfather? You shall not! you dare not !” cried 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 2 87 

the small Phillipse, with a flood of angry tears, as 
he struggled and fought in his captor’s clutch. 

Dolly Duane’s kindly heart was filled with pity 
at the rough usage of the “little lord.” 

“ Oh, sir,” she said, as she pushed through the 
crowd and laid her hand on the big bully’s arm, 
“let the child go. ’T is unmannerly to treat him 
as you do, and you ’re very, very cruel.” 

The fellow turned roughly around and looked 
down into Dolly’s disturbed and protesting face. 

“What, another of ’em?” he said, surlily. 
“ Why, the place is full of little Tories.” 

“No, no; no Tory I !” said indignant Dolly. 
“ My father is Mr. Duane, and he is no Tory.” 

“ Mr. Duane, of the Congress ?” “Give up the 
lad to the maid.” “Why harm the child?” came 
mingled voices from the crowd. 

“ What care I for Duane ! ” said the bully, con- 
temptuously. “ One man ’s as good as another 
now in free America, — is n’t he ? Bah ! you ’re 
all cowards ; but I know when I ’ve got a good 
thing. You don’t bag a Phillipse every day, I ’ll 
warrant you.” 

“ No ; but we bag other game once in a while,” 
said Dolly’s cousin, young Edward Livingston, 
pushing his way to her side. “We bag turncoats, 
and thieves, and murthering runagates sometimes, 
even in ‘ free America ’ ; and we know what to do 


288 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


with them when we do bag them. Friends,” he 
cried, turning to the crowd, “do you know this 
fellow ? He ’s a greater prize than the little Phil- 
lipse. ’T is Big Jake of the Saw-mill — a ‘skinner' 
one day and a ‘ cow-boy ■ next, as it suits his fancy 
and as it brings him booty. I know him, and so does 
the water-guard. I am Livingston, of Clermont 
Manor. Let down the lad, man, or we ’ll turn 
you over to the town-major. He ’d like rarely to 
have a chance at you.” 

The crowd uttered a cry of rage as it closed 
excitedly around the burly member of the lawless 
gang that had preyed upon the defenceless people 
of the lower Hudson during the years of war and 
raid. The bully paled at the sound, and loosed 
his hold upon the little Phillipse. Without wait- 
ing to see the issue, young Livingston dragged the 
“little lord” from the throng, while his companion, 
Master Clinton, hurried Dolly along, and they were 
soon free from the crowd that was dealing roughly 
enough with Big Jake of the Saw-mill. 

“ Now, Dolly, let us go back to the farm before 
we get into further trouble,” said Cousin Ned, a 
pleasant young fellow of eighteen, who looked upon 
himself as the lawful protector of “ the children.” 

“ But what shall we do with our little lord of the 
manor, Cousin Ned? ’’asked Dolly. 

“The safest plan is to take him with us,” he 
replied. 



o 

CO 

c* 


“OH, SIR,” SAID DOLI.Y, “LET THE CHILD GO. 


290 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ Oh, no, sir ; no,” pleaded the little boy. 
“We sail to-day with Sir Guy Carleton, and what 
will grandfather do without me?” And then he 
told them how, early that morning, he had slipped 
away from Angevine, Colonel Phillipse’s body- 
servant, passed through the barriers and strolled 
up the Bowery lane to see the “ rebel soldiers”; how 
he had lost his way in the crowd, and was in sore 
distress and danger until Dolly interfered ; and 
how he thanked them “ over and over again ” for 
protecting him. But “ Oh, please, I must go back 
to my grandfather,” he added. 

Little Mistress Dolly had a mind of her own, and 
she warmly championed the cause of the “lost little 
lord,” as she called him. 

“ Cousin Ned,” she said, “of course he must go 
to his grandfather, and of course we must take him. 
Think how I should feel if they tried to keep me 
from my father!” and Dolly’s sympathetic eyes 
tilled at the dreadful thought. 

“ But how can we take him ? ” asked Cousin Ned. 
“ How can we get past the barriers ? ” 

A hundred years ago, New York City proper ex- 
tended northward only as far as the present post- 
office, and during the Revolution a line of earth- 
works was thrown across the island at that point to 
defend it against assault from the north. The Brit- 
ish sentinels at these barriers were not to give up 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


29I 


their posts to the Americans until one o’clock on this 
eventful Evacuation-Day, and Cousin Ned, therefore, 
could not well see how they could pass the sentries. 

But young Master Clinton, a bright, curly-haired 
boy of thirteen, said confidently : “ Oh, that ’s 
easily done.” And then, with a knowledge of the 
highways and by-ways which many rambles through 
the dear old town had given him, he unfolded his 
plan. “ See here,” he said ; “we ’ll turn down the 
Monument lane, just below us, cut across through 
General Mortier’s woods to Mr. Nicholas Bayard’s, 
and so on to the Ranelagh Gardens. From there 
we can easily get over to the Broad Way and the 
Murray-Street barrier before General Knox gets to 
the Fresh Water, where he has been ordered to 
halt until one o’clock. When the guard at the bar- 
rier knows that we have the little Baron of Phillips- 1 
bourg with us, and has handled the two York six- 
pences you will give him, of course he ’ll let us 
pass. So, don’t you see, we can fix this little boy 
all right, and, better yet, can see King George’s 
men go out and our troops come in, and make just 
a splendid day of it.” 

Dolly, fully alive to these glorious possibilities, 
clapped her hands delightedly. 

“What a brain the boy has!” said young Liv- 
ingston. “ Keep on, my son,” he said, patroniz- 
ingly, “ and you ’ll make a great man yet.” 


292 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


“ So I mean to be,” said De Witt Clinton, 
cheerily, and then, heading the little group, he fol- 
lowed out the route he had proposed. Erelong 
the barriers were safely passed, Cousin Ned was 
two York sixpences out of pocket, and the young 
people stood within the British lines. 

“ And now, where may we find your grandfather, 
little one?” Cousin Ned inquired, as they halted 
on the Broad Way beneath one of the tall poplars 
that lined that old-time street. 

The little Phillipse could not well reply. The noise 
and confusion that filled the city had well-nigh turned 
his head. For what with the departing English 
troops, the disconsolate loyalist refugees hurrying 
for transportation to distant English ports, and the 
zealous citizens who were making great prepara- 
tions to welcome the incoming soldiers of the Con- 
gress, the streets of the little city were full of bustle 
and excitement. The boy said his grandfather 
might be at the fort ; he might be at the King’s 
Arms Tavern, near Stone Street ; he might be — 
he would be — hunting for him. 

So Master Clinton suggested : “ Let ’s go down 
to Mr. Day’s tavern here in Murray Street. He 
knows me, and, if he can, will find Colonel Phil- 
lipse for us.” Down into Murray Street therefore 
they turned, and, near the road to Greenwich, saw 
the tavern, — a long, low-roofed house, gable end 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 293 

to the street, — around which an excited crowd 
surged and shouted. 

“ Why, look there,” Master Clinton cried ; “ look 
there ; and the king’s men not yet gone ! ” and, 
following the direction of his finger, they saw with 
surprise the stars and stripes, the flag of the new 
republic, floating from the pole before the tavern. 

“ Huzza ! ” they shouted with the rest, but the 
“ little lord ” said, somewhat contemptuously, “Why, 
’t is the rebel flag — or so my grandfather calls it.” 

“ Rebel no longer, little one,” said Cousin Ned, 
■“ as even your good grandfather must now admit. 
But surely,” he added, anxiously, “ Mr. Day will 
get himself in trouble by raising his flag before 
our troops come in.” 

An angry shout now rose from the throng around 
the flag-staff, and as the fringe of small boys scat- 
tered and ran in haste, young Livingston caught 
one of them by the arm. “ What ’s the trouble, 
lad ? ” he asked. 

“ Let go !” said the boy, struggling to free him- 
self. “ You ’d better scatter, too, or Cunningham 
will catch you. He ’s ordered down Day’s flag, 
and says he ’ll clear the crowd.” 

They all knew who Cunningham was — the cruel 
and vindictive British provost-marshal ; the starver 
of American prisoners and the terror of American 
children. “Come away, quick,” said Cousin Ned. 


294 


CHIVALRIC DA VS. 


But, though they drew off at first, curiosity was 
too strong, and they were soon in the crowd again. 

Cunningham, the marshal, stood at the foot of 
the flag-pole. “ Come, you rebel cur,” he said to 
Mr. Day, “ I give you two minutes to haul down 
that rag — two minutes, d ’ye hear, or into the 
Provost you go. Your beggarly troops are not in 
possession here yet, and I ’ll have no such striped 
rag as that flying in the faces of His Majesty’s 
forces ! ” 

“ There it is, and there it shall stay,” said Day, 
quietly but firmly. 

Cunningham turned to his guard. 

“ Arrest that man,” he ordered. “And as for 
this thing here, I ’ll haul it down myself,” and 
seizing the halyards, he began to lower the flag. 
The crowd broke out into fierce murmurs, uncer- 
tain what to do. But, in the midst of the tumult, 
the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied 
Mrs. Day, “ fair, fat, and forty,” armed with her 
trusty broom. 

“ Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my 
husband ! ” she cried, and before the astonished 
Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom 
came down thwack ! thwack ! upon his powdered 
wig. Old men still lived, not thirty years ago, 
who were boys in that excited crowd, and remem- 
bered how the powder flew from the stiff white 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


295 


wig and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the de- 
feated provost-marshal withdrew from the unequal 
contest, and fled before the resistless sweep of Mrs. 
Day’s all-conquering broom. And the flag did not 
come down. 

From the vantage-ground of a projecting “ stoop,’" 
our young friends had indulged in irreverent 
laughter, and the marshal’s quick ears caught 
the sound. 

Fuming with rage and seeking some one to vent 
his anger on, he rushed up the “ stoop ” and bade 
his guard drag down the culprits. 

“ What pestilent young rebels have we here ? ’" 
he growled. “Who are you?” He started as 
they gave their names. “ Livingston ? Clinton ? 
Duane?” he repeated. “Well, well — -a rare lot 
this of the rebel brood ! And who is yon young 
bantling in velvet and ruffles ?” 

“You must not stop us, sir,” said the boy, facing 
the angry marshal. “ I am the little lord of the 
manor, and my grandfather is Colonel Phillipse. 
Sir Guy Carleton is waiting for me.” 

“ Well, well,” exclaimed the surprised marshal ; 
“ here ’s a fine to-do ! A Phillipse in this rebel lot ! 
What does it mean ? Have ye kidnapped the lad? 
Here may be some treachery. Bring them along ! ” 
and with as much importance as if he had captured 
a whole corps of Washington’s dragoons, instead 


296 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


of a few harmless children, the young prisoners 
were hurried off, followed by an indignant crowd. 
Dolly was considerably frightened, and dark visions 
of the stocks, the whipping-post, and the ducking- 
stool by the Collect pond rose before her eyes. But 
Cousin Ned whispered : “ Don’t be afraid, Dolly — 
’t will all be right ” ; and Master Clinton even 
sought to argue with the marshal. 

“ There are no rebels now, sir,” he said, “ since 
your king has given up the fight. You yourselves 
are rebels, rather, if you restrain us of our freedom. 
I know your king’s proclamation, word for word. 
It says : 'We do hereby strictly charge and com- 
mand all our officers, both at sea and land, and all 
other our subjects whatsoever, to forbear all acts 
of hostility, either by sea or land, against the 
United States of America, their vassals or subjects, 
under the penalty of incurring our highest dis- 
pleasure.’ Wherefore, sir,” concluded this wise 
young pleader, “ if you keep us in unlawful cus- 
tody, you do brave your king’s displeasure.” 

“You impudent young rebel — ” began Cun- 
ningham ; but the “ little lord ” interrupted him 
with : “You shall not take us to jail, sir. I will tell 
my grandfather, and he will make Sir Guy punish 
you.” And upon this, the provost-marshal, whose 
wrath had somewhat cooled, began to fear that he 
might, perhaps, have exceeded his authority, and 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


297 


erelong, with a sour look and a surly word, he set 
the young people free. 

Sir Guy Carleton, K. C. B., commander-in-chief 
of all His Majesty’s forces in the colonies, stood 
at the foot of the flag-staff on the northern bastion 
of Fort George. Before him filed the departing 
troops of his king, evacuating the pleasant little 
city they had occupied for over seven years. 
“ There might be seen,” says one of the old 
records, “ the Hessian, with his towering, brass- 
fronted cap, mustache colored with the same black- 
ing which colored his shoes, his hair plastered with 
tallow and flour, and reaching in whip-form to his 
waist. His uniform was a blue coat, yellow vest 
and breeches, and black gaiters. The Highlander, 
with his low checked bonnet, his tartan or plaid, 
short red coat, his kilt above his knees, and they 
exposed, his hose short and party-colored. There 
were also the grenadiers of Anspach, with towering 
yellow caps ; the gaudy Waldeckers, with their 
cocked hats edged with yellow scallops ; the Ger- 
man yagers, and the various corps of English in 
glittering and gallant pomp.” The white-capped 
waves of the beautiful bay sparkled in the sunlight, 
while the whale-boats, barges, gigs, and launches 
sped over the water, bearing troops and refugees 
to the transports, or to the temporary camp on 


298 


CHIVALR1C DA YS. 


Staten Island. The last act of the evacuation was 
almost completed. But Sir Guy Carleton looked 
troubled. His eye wandered from the departing 
troops at Whitehall slip to the gate at Bowling 
Green, and then across the parade to the Gov- 
ernor’s gardens and the town beyond. 

“ Well, sir, what word from Colonel Phillipse ? ” 
he inquired, as an aid hurried to his side. 

“ He bids you go without him, General,” the aid 
reported. “ The boy is not yet found, but the 
Colonel says he will risk seizure rather than leave 
the lad behind.” 

“It cannot well be helped,” said the British 
commander. “ I will myself dispatch a line to 
General Washington, requesting due courtesy and 
safe conduct for Colonel Phillipse and his missing 
heir. But see — whom have we here ? ” he asked, 
as across the parade came a rumbling coach, while 
behind it a covered cariole came tearing through 
the gate-way. Ere the bastion on which the Gen- 
eral stood was reached the cariole drew up with 
sudden stop. Angevine, the black body-servant, 
sprang to the horses’ heads, and a very large man 
hatless, though richly dressed, descended hastily 
and flung open the door of the coach just as 
Mistress Dolly was preparing to descend, and as 
he helped her out he caught in his ample arms the 
little fellow who followed close at her heels. 



2 9 Q 



300 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


“ Good ; the lost is found ! ” exclaimed Sir Guy, 
who had been an interested spectator of the pan- 
tomime. 

“ All is well, General,” Golonel Phillipse cried, 
joyfully, as the commander came down from the 
bastion and welcomed the new-comers. “ My little 
lord of the manor is found ; and, faith, his loss 
troubled me more than all the attainder and for- 
feiture the rebel Congress can crowd upon me.” 

“ But how got he here ? ” Sir Guy asked. 

“ This fair little lady is both his rescuer and 
protector,” replied the grandfather. 

“ And who may you be, little mistress ? ” asked 
the commander-in-chief. 

Dolly made a neat little curtsy, for those were 
the days of good manners, and she was a proper 
little damsel. “ I am Dolly Duane, your Excel- 
lency,” she said, “daughter of Mr. James Duane,, 
of the Congress.” 

“ Duane ! ” exclaimed the Colonel ; “ well, well,, 
little one, I did not think a Phillipse would ever 
acknowledge himself debtor to a Duane, but now 
do I gladly do it. Bear my compliments to your 
father, sweet Mistress Dolly, and tell him that his 
old enemy, Phillipse, of Phillipsbourg, will never 
forget the kindly aid of his gentle little daughter, 
who has this day restored a lost lad to a sorrowing 
grandfather. And let me thus show my gratitude 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


301 


for your love and service,” and the very large man, 
stooping in all courtesy before the little girl, laid 
his hand in blessing on her head, and kissed her 
fair young face. 

“ A rare little maiden, truly,” said gallant Sir 
Guy : “ and though I have small cause to favor 
so hot an enemy of the king as is Mr. James 
Duane, I admire his dutiful little daughter ; and 
thus would I, too, render her love and service,” and 
the gleaming scarlet and gold-laced arms of the 
courtly old commander encircled fair Mistress 
Dolly, and a hearty kiss fell upon her blushing 
cheeks. But she was equal to the occasion. Rais- 
ing herself on tiptoe, she dropped a dainty kiss upon 
the General’s smiling face, and said, “ Let this, sir, 
be America’s good-bye kiss to your Excellency.” 

“ A right royal salute,” said Sir Guy. “ Mr. De 
Lancy, bid the band-master give us the farewell, 
march ” ; and, to the strains of appropriate music, 
the commander-in-chief and his staff passed down 
to the boats, and the little lord of Phillipse Manor 
waved Mistress Dolly a last farewell. 

Then the red cross of St. George, England’s 
royal flag, came fluttering down from its high staff 
on the north bastion, and the last of the rear-guard 
wheeled toward the slip. But Cunningham, the 
provost-marshal, still angered by the thought of his 
discomfiture at Day’s tavern, declared roundly that. 


.302 


CHIVALKIC DA YS. 


no rebel flag should go up that staff in sight of 
King George’s men. “ Come, lively now, you blue 
jackets,” he shouted, turning to some of the sailors 
from the fleet. “Unreeve the halyards, quick; 
slush down the pole ; knock off the stepping-cleats ! 
Then let them run their rag up if they can.” His 
orders were quickly obeyed. The halyards were 
speedily cut, the stepping-cleats knocked from the 
staff, and the tall pole covered with grease, so that 
none might climb it. And with this final act of un- 
soldierly discourtesy, the memory of which has lived 
through a hundred busy years, the provost-marshal 
left the now liberated city. 

Even Sir Guy’s gallant kiss could not rid Dolly 
of her fear of Cunningham’s frown ; but as she 
scampered off she heard his final order, and, hot 
with indignation, told the news to Cousin Ned and 
Master Clinton, who were in waiting for her on the 
Bowling Green. The younger lad was for stirring 
up the people to instant action, but just then they 
heard the roll of drums, and, standing near the ruins 
of King George’s statue, watched the advance-guard 
of the Continental troops as they filed in to take 
possession of the fort. Beneath the high gate-way 
and straight toward the north bastion marched the 
detachment — a troop of horse, a regiment of infan- 
try, and a company of artillery. The batteries, the 
parapets, and the ramparts were thronged with 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


303 


cheering people, and Colonel Jackson, halting be- 
fore the flag-staff, ordered up the stars and stripes. 

“ The halyards are cut, Colonel,” reported the 
color-sergeant ; “ the cleats are gone, and the pole 
is slushed.” 

“ A mean trick, indeed,” exclaimed the indignant 
Colonel. “ Hallo there, lads, will you be outwitted 
by such a scurvy trick ? Look where they wait in 
their boats to give us the laugh. Will you let 
tainted Tories and buttermilk Whigs thus shame 
us ? A gold jacobus to him who will climb the 
staff and reeve the halyards for the stars and 
stripes.” 

Dolly’s quick ear caught the ringing words. “ Oh, 
Cousin Ned,” she cried ; “ I saw Jacky Van Arsdale 
on the Bowling Green. Don’t you remember how 
he climbed the greased pole at Clermont, in the 
May merrying ? ” and with that she sped across the 
parade and through the gate-way, returning soon 
with a stout sailor-boy of fifteen. “ Now, tell the 
Colonel you ’ll try it, Jacky.” 

“Go it, Jack!” shouted Cousin Ned. “I ’ll 
make the gold jacobus two if you but reeve the 
halyards.” 

“ I want no money for the job, Master Living- 
ston,” said the sailor-lad. “ I ’ll do it if I can for 
Mistress Dolly’s sake.” 

Jack was an expert climber, but if any of my boy 


304 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


readers think it a simple thing to “shin up” a 
greased pole, just let them try it once — and fail. 

Jack Van Arsdale tried it manfully once, twice, 
thrice, and each time came slipping down covered 
with slush and shame. And all the watchers in the 
boats off-shore joined in a chorus of laughs and 
jeers. Jack shook his fist at them angrily. “I ’ll 
fix’ em yet,” he said. “ If ye ’ll but saw me up some 
cleats, and give me hammer and nails, I ’ll run that 
flag to the top in spite of all the Tories from ’Sopus 
to Sandy Hook ! ” 

Ready hands and willing feet came to the assist- 
ance of the plucky lad. Some ran swiftly to Mr. 
Goelet’s, “ the iron-monger’s ” in Hanover Square, 
and brought quickly back “ a hand-saw, hatchet, 
hammer, gimlets, and nails” ; others drew a long 
board to the bastion, and while one sawed the 
board into lengths, another split the strips into 
cleats, others bored the nail-holes, and soon young 
Jack had material enough. 

Then, tying the halyards around his waist, and 
filling his jacket-pockets with cleats and nails, he 
worked his way up the flag-pole, nailing and climb- 
ing as he went. And now he reaches the top, now 
the halyards are reeved, and as the beautiful flag goes 
fluttering up the staff a mighty cheer is heard, and a 
round of thirteen guns salutes the stars and stripes 
and the brave sailor-boy who did the gallant deed L 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 305 

From the city streets came the roll and rumble of 
distant drums, and Dolly and her two companions, 
following the excited crowd, hastened across Han- 
over Square, and from an excellent outlook in the 
Fly Market watched the whole grand procession as 
it wound down Queen (now Pearl) Street, making 
its triumphal entry into the welcoming city. First 
came a corps of dragoons, then followed the ad- 
vance-guard of light infantry and a corps of artil- 
lery, then more light infantry, a battalion of Massa- 
chusetts troops, and the rear-guard. As the 
veterans, with their soiled and faded uniforms, 
filed past, Dolly could not help contrasting them 
with the brilliant appearance of the British troops 
she had seen in the fort. “ Their clothes do look 
worn and rusty,” she said. “ But then,” she added, 
with beaming eyes, “ they are our soldiers, and that 
is every thing.” 

And now she hears “ a great hozaing all down the 
Fly,” as one record queerly puts it, and as the shouts 
increase, she sees a throng of horsemen, where, es- 
corted by Captain Delavan’s “ West Chester Light 
Horse,” ride the heroes of that happy hour, Gen- 
eral George Washington and Governor George 
Clinton. Dolly added her clear little treble to the 
loud huzzas as the famous commander-in-chief rode 
down the echoing street. Behind their excellencies 
•came other officials, dignitaries, army officers, and 


3 °6 


CH1VALRIC DAYS . 


files of citizens, on horseback and afoot, many of 
the latter returning to dismantled and ruined 
homes after nearly eight years of exile. 

But Dolly did not wait to see the whole proces- 
sion. She had spied her father in the line of 
mounted citizens, and flying across Queen Street, 
and around by Golden Hill (near Maiden Lane), 
where the first blood of the Revolution was spilled, 
she hurried down the Broad Way, so as to reach 
Mr. Cape’s tavern before their excellencies ar- 
rived. 

Soon she was in her father’s arms relating her 
adventures, and as she received his chidings for 
mingling in such “unseemly crowds,” and his 
praise for her championship and protection of 
the little Phillipse, a kindly hand was laid upon 
her fair young head, and a voice whose tones she 
could never forget said: “So may our children 
be angels of peace, Mr. Duane. Few have suf- 
fered more, or deserved better from their country, 
sir, than you ; but the possession of so rare a little 
daughter is a fairer recompense than aught your 
country can bestow. Heaven has given me no 
children, sir ; but had I thus been blessed, I could 
have wished for no gentler or truer-hearted little 
daughter than this maid of yours.” And with the 
stately courtesy that marked the time, General 
Washington bent down and kissed little Dolly as 


THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR. 


30 7 


she sat on her fathers knee. Touched by his. 
kindly words, Dolly forgot all her awe of the 
great man. Flinging two winsome arms about 
his neck, she kissed him in return, and said, softly : 
“ If Mr. Duane were not my father, sir, I would, 
rather it should be you than any one else.” 



In all her after-life, though she retained pleasant 
memories of Sir Guy Carleton, and thought him a 
grand and gallant gentleman, Dolly Duane held 
still more firmly to her reverence and affection 
for General Washington, whom she described as 
u looking more grand and noble than any human 
being she had ever seen.” 


3°8 


CHIVALRIC DA YS. 


Next to General Washington, I think she held 
the fire-works that were set off in the Bowling 
Green in honor of the Peace to have been the 
grandest thing she had ever seen. The rockets, 
and the wheels, and the tourbillions, and the bat- 
teries, and the stars were all so wonderful to her, 
that General Knox said Dolly’s “ ohs ” and “ ahs ” 
were “ as good as a play ” ; and staid Master Clin- 
ton and jolly Cousin Ned threatened to send to the 
Ferry stairs for an anchor to hold her down. Both 
these young gentlemen grew to be famous Ameri- 
cans in after years, and witnessed many anniversa- 
ries of this glorious Evacuation-Day. But they 
never enjoyed any of them quite as much as they 
did the exciting original, nor could they ever for- 
get, amidst all the throng of memories, how sweet 
Mistress Dolly Duane championed and protected 
the lost “little lord of the manor,” and won the 
distinguished honor of being kissed by both the 
commanders-in-chief on the same eventful day. 




23 

* 
























33 C 70 





















































































































































. 



























































































































































































































































































































































































































